Happyland

Two )0( Stories

2005-03-20T23:26:00.000-05:00

Here are two stories that accurately reflect the essence of Paganism.

Wizards Magick

There was, at such a time and such a place, a wizard of great repute. Such were the wonders and learnings ascribed to him that he was forced to erect great trials to thin the ranks of those clamoring to learn his secrets.

From fire and water, through sand and air, and past fear and greed emerged two. The first, a young man of reverent demeanor and holy ways, introduced himself thus: "Master, my humble life is dedicated to the persuit of that Holy of Holies, Truth. I offer my life and my fortune and all that is in my power if you will aid me on my quest."

The second, who's eyes burned with an inner fire, spoke thus: "Great Master, I too have a quest. It has come to me that if I work to know the seeing of many things and the knowing of what I see, a day may come when I can add my grain of sand to that which is known. All that I have, all that I am, I put at your disposal."

The Master, quietly pleased, said "All I offer is the chance to do the meanest of tasks in my household while you earn the rights to learn the least of what I can teach. If this is agreeable, then you may start."

After many years of effort the two learned much of the four arts. They learned to read and understand the stories told in letters, numbers, and the stars. They learned to draw water from the desert, to climb the air as a ladder, and to walk on clouds as though on solid ground. It was in this last place that they came to the time of the final teaching.

"When you have mastered this skill, you will each have the final tool you need for your quest." This said, he gave them the secret of knowing the Truth in whatever they beheld. Once they had shown their mastery, he spoke thus: "The time of teaching has come to an end. Now each of you must seek his destiny. I send you on your way with this final gift and thought: until this day, until this moment, nothing I have taught you or told you has been the Truth."

The reverent apprentice, seeing the Truth in the master's words, plunged to his death in despair. As one, the old master and the new spoke: "He has found his Truth."

Thus, the Truthseeker found his Truth, the seeker learned to see and to know (and added many grains of knowledge to the world), and the wizard added to the magick of the world for a time.

Two Witches
A Modern Craft Fairy Tale
by Mike Nichols

Once upon a time, there were two Witches. One was a Feminist Witch and the other was a Traditionalist Witch. And, although both of them were deeply religious, they had rather different ideas about what their religion meant.

The Feminist Witch tended to believe that Witchcraft was a religion especially suited to women because the image of the Goddess was empowering and a strong weapon against patriarchal tyranny. And there was distrust in the heart of the Feminist Witch for the Traditionalist Witch because, from the Feminist perspective, the Traditionalist Witch seemed subversive and a threat to 'the Cause'.

The Traditionalist Witch tended to believe that Witchcraft was a religion for both men and women because anything less would be divisive. And although the Goddess was worshipped, care was taken to give equal stress to the God-force in nature, the Horned One. And there was distrust in the heart of the Traditionalist Witch for the Feminist Witch because, from the Traditionalist viewpoint, the Feminist Witch seemed like a late-comer and a threat to 'Tradition'.

These two Witches lived in the same community but each belonged to a different Coven, so they did not often run into one another. Strange to say, the few times they did meet, they felt an odd sort of mutual attraction, at least on the physical level. But both recognized the folly of this attraction, for their ideologies were worlds apart, and nothing, it seemed, could ever bridge them.

Then one year the community decided to hold a Grand Coven, and all the Covens in the area were invited to attend. After the rituals, the singing, the magicks, the feasting, the poetry, and dancing were concluded, all retired to their tents and sleeping bags. All but these two. For they were troubled by their differences and couldn't sleep. They alone remained sitting by the campfire while all others around them dreamed. And before long, they began to talk about their differing views of the Goddess. And, since they were both relatively inexperienced Witches, they soon began to argue about what was the 'true' image of the Goddess.

'Describe your image of the Goddess to me,' challenged the Feminist Witch.

The Traditionalist Witch smiled, sighed, and said in a rapt voice, 'She is the embodiment of all loveliness. The quintessence of feminine beauty. I picture her with silver-blond hair like moonlight, rich and thick, falling down around her soft shoulders. She has the voluptuous young body of a maiden in her prime, and her clothes are the most seductive, gossamer thin and clinging to her willowy frame. I see her dancing like a young elfin nymph in a moonlit glade, the dance of a temple priestess. And she calls to her lover, the Horned One, in a voice that is gentle and soft and sweet, and as musical as a silver bell frosted with ice. She is Aphrodite, goddess of sensual love. And her lover comes in answer to her call, for she is destined to become the Great Mother. That is how I see the Goddess.'

The Feminist Witch hooted with laughter and said, 'Your Goddess is a Cosmic Barbie Doll! The Jungian archetype of a cheer-leader! She is all glitter and no substance. Where is her strength? Her power? I see the Goddess very differently. To me, she is the embodiment of strength and courage and wisdom. A living symbol of the collective power of women everywhere. I picture her with hair as black as a moonless night, cropped short for ease of care on the field of battle. She has the muscular body of a woman at the peak of health and fitness. And her clothes are the most practical and sensible, not slinky cocktail dresses. She does not paint her face or perfume her hair or shave her legs to please men's vanities. Nor does she do pornographic dances to attract a man to her. For when she calls to a male, in a voice that is strong and defiant, it will be to do battle with the repressive masculine ego. She is Artemis the huntress, and it is fatal for any man to cast a leering glance in her direction. For, although she may be the many-breasted Mother, she is also the dark Crone of wisdom, who destroys the old order. That is how I see the Goddess.'

Now the Traditionalist Witch hooted with laughter and said, 'Your Goddess is the antithesis of all that is feminine! She is Yahweh hiding behind a feminine mask! Don't forget that it was his followers who burned Witches at the stake for the 'sin' of having 'painted faces'. After all, Witches with their knowledge of herbs were the ones who developed the art of cosmetics. So what of beauty? What of love and desire?'

And so the argument raged, until the sound of their voices awakened a Coven Elder who was sleeping nearby. The Elder looked from the Feminist Witch to the Traditionalist Witch and back again, saying nothing for a long moment. Then the Elder suggested that both Witches go into the woods apart from one another and there, by magick and meditation, that each seek a 'true' vision of the Goddess. This they both agreed to do.

After a time of invocations, there was a moment of perfect stillness. Then a glimmer of light could be seen in the forest, a light shaded deepest green by the dense foliage. Both Witches ran toward the source of the radiance. To their wonder and amazement, they discovered the Goddess had appeared in a clearing directly between them, so that neither Witch could see the other. And the Traditionalist Witch yelled 'What did I tell you!' at the same instant the Feminist Witch yelled 'You see, I was right!' and so neither Witch heard the other.

To the Feminist Witch, the Goddess seemed to be a shining matrix of power and strength, with courage and energy flowing outward. The Goddess seemed to be holding out her arms to embrace the Feminist Witch, as a comrade in arms. To the Traditionalist Witch, the Goddess seemed to be the zenith of feminine beauty, lightly playing a harp and singing a siren song of seduction. Energy seemed to flow towards her. And she seemed to hold out her arms to the Traditionalist Witch, invitingly.

From opposite sides of the clearing, the Witches ran toward the figure of the Goddess they both loved so well, desiring to be held in the ecstasy of that divine embrace. But just before they reached her, the apparition vanished.

And the two Witches were startled to find themselves embracing each other.

And then they both heard the voice of the Goddess. And, oddly enough, it sounded exactly the same to both of them.

It sounded like laughter.

)0(

Percussive Maintenance Required

2005-03-13T00:30:00.000-05:00

I've change the setting for comments here to "registered users": this means to leave a comment you have to sign up for / login from a blogger account. It's free, but since this blog will mostly be languishing as a lump in cyberspace -- anyone who trips over it and wants to say something will have to be registered.
Not that an enterprising imp can't boondoggle the system, so I guess I'm counting on the laziness of the average malcontent to simply not bother me.

Yeah, I am still smarting a bit from getting reamed over on the forum. A mild case of influence-ahhhh.

I'm going to be parking most of my thoughts over at the other one, or the forum.
I'm letting this one just sit for a while. I may yet delete it.
I really don't know.
It's a first effort and I've learned a lot here.
Thank you to everyone who ever took the time to read it -- and bless all the comment writers who took the time to share their thoughts.

loving thoughts, always.
ev.
__________________
"The beautiful part of writing is that you don't have to get it right the first time, unlike, say, a brain surgeon." -- Robert Cromier

The Jackal and the Partridge

2005-03-02T12:19:00.000-05:00

no deeper meanings here, none at all....
The Jackal and the Partridge
An Indian Tale
~^~*~^~*~^~*~^~

A Jackal and a Partridge swore eternal friendship; but the Jackal was very exacting and jealous. "You don't do half as much for me as I do for you," he used to say, "and yet you talk a great deal of your friendship. Now my idea of a friend is one who is able to make me laugh or cry, give me a good meal, or save my life if need be. You couldn't do that!"

"Let us see," answered the Partridge; "follow me at a little distance, and if I don't make you laugh soon you may eat me!"

So she flew on till she met two travellers trudging along, one behind the other. They were both footsore and weary, and the first carried his bundle on a stick over his shoulder, while the second had his shoes in his hand.

Lightly as a feather the Partridge settled on the first traveller's stick. He, none the wiser, trudged on, but the second traveller, seeing the bird sitting so tamely just in front of his nose, said to himself,

"What a chance for a supper!" and immediately flung his shoes at it, they being ready to hand. Whereupon the Partridge flew away, and the shoes knocked off the first traveller's turban.

"What a plague do you mean?" cried he, angrily turning on his companion. "Why did you throw your shoes at my head?"

"Brother!" replied the other mildly, "do not be vexed. I didn't throw them at you, but at a Partridge that was sitting on your stick."

"On my stick! Do you take me for a fool?" shouted the injured man, in a great rage. "Don't tell me such cock-and-bull stories. First you insult me, and then you lie like a coward; but I'll teach you manners!"

Then he fell upon his fellow-traveller without more ado, and they fought until they could not see out of their eyes, till their noses were bleeding, their clothes in rags, and the Jackal had nearly died of laughing.

"Are you satisfied?" asked the Partridge of her friend.

"Well," answered the Jackal, "you have certainly made me laugh, but I doubt if you could make me cry. It is easy enough to be a buffoon; it is more difficult to excite the higher emotions."

"Let us see," retorted the Partridge, somewhat piqued; "there is a huntsman with his dogs coming along the road. Just creep into that hollow tree and watch me: if you don't weep scalding tears, you must have no feeling in you!"

The Jackal did as he was bid, and watched the Partridge, who began fluttering about the bushes till the dogs caught sight of her, when she flew to the hollow tree where the Jackal was hidden. Of course the dogs smelt him at once, and set up such a yelping and scratching that the huntsman came up, and seeing what it was, dragged the Jackal out by the tail. Whereupon the dogs worried him to their hearts' content, and finally left him for dead.

By and by he opened his eyes--for he was only foxing--and saw the Partridge sitting on a branch above him.

"Did you cry?" she asked anxiously. "Did I rouse your higher emo---"

"Be quiet, will you!" snarled the Jackal; "I'm half dead with fear!"

So there the Jackal lay for some time, getting the better of his bruises, and meanwhile he became hungry.

"Now is the time for friendship!" said he to the Partridge. "Get me a good dinner, and I will acknowledge you are a true friend."

"Very well!" replied the Partridge; "only watch me, and help yourself when the time comes."

Just then a troop of women came by, carrying their husbands' dinners to the harvest-field.

The Partridge gave a little plaintive cry, and began fluttering along from bush to bush as if she were wounded.

"A wounded bird!--a wounded bird!" cried the women; "we can easily catch it!"

Whereupon they set off in pursuit, but the cunning Partridge played a thousand tricks, till they became so excited over the chase that they put their bundles on the ground in order to pursue it more nimbly. The Jackal, meanwhile, seizing his opportunity, crept up, and made off with a good dinner.

"Are you satisfied now?" asked the Partridge.

"Well," returned the Jackal, "I confess you have given me a very good dinner; you have also made me laugh--and cry--ahem! But, after all, the great test of friendship is beyond you--you couldn't save my life!"

"Perhaps not," acquiesced the Partridge mournfully, "I am so small and weak. But it grows late--we should be going home; and as it is a long way round by the ford, let us go across the river. My friend the crocodile will carry us over."

Accordingly, they set off for the river, and the crocodile kindly consented to carry them across, so they sat on his broad back and he ferried them over. But just as they were in the middle of the stream the Partridge remarked, "I believe the crocodile intends to play us a trick. How awkward if he were to drop you into the water!"

"Awkward for you too!" replied the Jackal, turning pale.

"Not at all! not at all! I have wings, you haven't."

On this the Jackal shivered and shook with fear, and when the crocodile, in a gruesome growl, remarked that he was hungry and wanted a good meal, the wretched creature hadn't a word to say.

"Pooh!" cried the Partridge airily, "don't try tricks on us,-- I should fly away, and as for my friend the Jackal, you couldn't hurt him. He is not such a fool as to take his life with him on these little excursions; he leaves it at home, locked up in the cupboard."

"Is that a fact?" asked the crocodile, surprised.

"Certainly!" retorted the Partridge. "Try to eat him if you like, but you will only tire yourself to no purpose."

"Dear me! how very odd!" gasped the crocodile; and he was so taken aback that he carried the Jackal safe to shore.

"Well, are you satisfied now?" asked the Partridge.

"My dear madam!" quoth the Jackal, "you have made me laugh, you have made me cry, you have given me a good dinner, and you have saved my life; but upon my honor I think you are too clever for a friend; so, good-bye!"

And the Jackal never went near the Partridge again.

Living Like a Pig

2005-02-08T13:30:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I've been writing everywhere else but here. I am going to address what's going on -- but here's something to think about mean while...
ev.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Living Like a Pig
An Indian Tale
One day, a guru foresaw in a flash of vision what he would be in his next life. So he called his favorite disciple and asked him what he would do for his guru in return for all he had received. The disciple said he would do whatever his guru asked him to do.
Having received this promise, the guru said, "Then this is what I'd like you to do for me. I've just learned that when I die, which will be very soon, I'm going to be reborn as a pig. Do you see that sow eating garbage there in the yard? I'm going to be reborn as the fourth piglet of its next litter. You'll recognize me by a mark on my brow. When that sow has littered, find the fourth piglet with a mark on its brow and, with one stroke of your knife, slaughter it. I'll then be released from a pig's life. Will you do this for me?"
The disciple was sad to hear all this, but he agreed to do as he had promised.
Soon after this conversation, the guru did die. And the sow did have a litter of four little pigs. One day, the disciple sharpened his knife and picked out the fourth little pig, which did indeed have a mark on its brow. Just as he was about to bring down his knife to slit its throat, the little pig suddenly spoke. "Stop! Don't kill me!" it screamed.
Before the disciple could recover from the shock of hearing the little pig speak in a human voice, it said, "Don't kill me. I want to live on as a pig. When I asked you to kill me, I didn't know what a pig's life would be like. It's great! Just let me go."

Reason and Fortune

2005-01-22T01:25:00.000-05:00

I love fairytales. Well -- of course I do! *snort*. This is one I've never read before....
Reason and Fortune
A Czech Tale

Once Reason met Fortune on a footbridge. "Let me pass," said Fortune.
Reason was inexperienced and did not know who should go first and said: "Why should I let you pass? You are not better than me."
"The one who manages to do more," answered Fortune, "is better. Can you see that boy who ploughs the field? Get inside him and if he is better with you than with me, I will let you pass any time and anywhere we will meet."
Reason agreed and got inside the boy's head. When the boy felt reason in his head, he began to think: "Why should I plough this field all my life? I could be happy." He stopped ploughing and went home.
"Papa," he said, "I do not like farming, I would like to learn to be a gardener."
His father said: "Have you become a fool?" But when he thought it over, he said: "If you want to, Vanek, you can, God be with you. Your brother will inherit our house from me instead of you."
Vanek lost the house but he did not mind it. He went away and began to learn at the royal gardens. He learnt very quickly and the gardener did not have to teach him much. Soon Vanek began to learn himself and did not need the gardener.
The gardener did not like it but when he saw that everything was being done well, he was satisfied: "I see that you are wiser than me," he said and let Vanek do everything himself.
The garden was nicer and nicer and the king was very pleased and walked in the garden very often with the queen and their only daughter.
The daughter was very beautiful girl but she stopped speaking when she was twelve and nobody heard her to speak since that time. The king was troubled by it very much and announced that who would teach her to speak, becomes her husband. Many young kings, princes and dukes came to try it but nobody managed it. The princess was silent. "Why couldn't I try it too? Maybe, I will be lucky," thought Vanek, "I will be asking her, she has to answer me."
He went to the king and was led to the room where the king's daughter was. She had a small dog and liked him very much because the dog was very smart and understood everything she wanted.
When Vanek and the king entered the room, he did not even notice the princess but began to talk to the dog: "I heard that you are very smart and I want advice from you. We were three journeymen--a carver, a tailor and me. Once we went through a forest and we had to sleep there. We were scared of wolves so we made fire. Each of us was to watch for some time. Firstly, the carver watched and because he had not much to do. He took a piece of wood and made a nice girl of it. Then he woke the tailor. The tailor saw the girl and asked what it was. 'You see,' said the carver, 'I did not know what to do, so I made this girl. If you want you can make dress for her.' The tailor took scissors, needle and thread and began to sew. When the dress was made, he put it on the girl. Then he asked me to watch. I asked what the girl was. 'You see,' said the tailor, 'the carver made this girl and I sewed the dress for her. If you want, you can teach her to speak.' And I really taught her to speak. In the morning, when they woke up, everybody wanted to have the girl. The carver said: 'I made her.' The tailor said: 'I made dress for her.' I also wanted to have the girl. Tell me, little dog, who should have the girl?"
The dog was silent but the princess answered instead of him: "Who else than you should have her? What is carver's girl without life? What is tailor's dress without speech? You gave her the best gift--life and speech--you should have the girl."
" You decided about yourself," said Vanek, "I gave speech and new life to you, so you should be mine."
One of the king's counselors said: "His Majesty will give you a good reward because you managed to give speech to the princess but you cannot marry her, you are not of a noble origin."
The king said: "You cannot marry her. I will give you a good reward."
Vanek, however, did not want to hear about the reward: "The king promised: 'who will make his daughter speak, will marry her.' The king's word is law and if the king wants people to behave according to law, he must behave in that way too. The king must give me his daughter."
"Bind him up," shouted the counselor, "he said that the king must do something, he will die. Your Majesty, his head should be cut off."
The king said: "Cut his head off."
Vanek was bound up and led to the place of execution. When they came there, Fortune said to Reason: "You see, he is not very well with you, his head will be cut off. Get out so I can get into your place."
When Fortune got inside Vanek, the headsman's sword broke. Before they brought another sword, the royal bugler came and after him the royal coach.
The king's daughter said to her father that Vanek was right and the king's word should not be cancelled and that the king can make duke of Vanek.
The king said: "You are right, he will be the duke."
They sent a coach for Vanek and instead of Vanek's head, the head of the counselor was cut off because his advice was not wise.
When there was the wedding reception, Reason came but seeing he would meet Fortune, he ran away.
Since that time, when Reason meets Fortune, Reason gives way so Fortune can pass.

penumbra

2005-01-18T15:16:00.000-05:00

I am at heart an etymologist. I love digging at the roots of words, understanding where they come from and how they evolve. "almost shadow" -- what a neat concept! It seems mind boggling something could possibly be an almost shadow -- either there is a shadow or there isn't -- but it's a slippery concept; intriguing and a pleasant waste of time to contemplate.
I am feeling better. I think. lol. I don't know how much it has to do with my physical health, but mentally I seem better off.
and I have this Richard Lewis voice in my head saying, for now.

You know? I'll take it. Yeah. good enough.
I appreciate the "numb" in penumbra as well as the straight, non-fuzzy definition.
hehehe heh.

)0(
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This week's theme is: In the dark. penumbra (noun) [pi·NUM·brah]

1. a fringe region of partial shadow around a darker inner shadow, as in an eclipse

2. the grayish outer area surrounding the dark center of a sunspot: "Rick used special photography equipment to incorporate penumbra into his abstract art."

3. an indistinct area, especially where something is unclear or uncertain

4. an outer region or periphery

adjective forms: penumbral, penumbrous

Origin:Approximately 1666; from New Latin, 'penumbra'; from Latin, 'paene': almost + 'umbra': shadow.

In action:

"I know what you're talking about. There's a kind of person who shines, who is quick and bright and hard to catch, around whom it seems that life is sweeter, lighter, faster. And you want to ride in their cars and go to the parties they go to. But when you get in the car suddenly you're like a bag of concrete in the leather seat, dusty and inert, and they look at you and you know they're thinking how heavy you are and how unpleasant it's going to be to have to carry you on their backs all the way up the steps of the glamorous house up in the Hollywood Hills where Ice-T lives.

All I can say is, you have some choices. You can be the slightly uncool guy who's always in the background, as if silence and shadow followed you around; there's a penumbra of uncoolness about your head so that it's almost hard to see you even in the bright sunlight. You can be that guy if you want, if you feed on this action and you can stand not to be in the spotlight, can stand being the driver, the fetcher of cocktails, the one who always goes for beer.

I have been cool and I have been uncool, and cool is pretty good, but uncool is better. Cool is too much work; you have to be an athlete of ennui, a virtuoso actor of sweet nonchalance, you have to look as though where you just came from was the most fabulous place in the world except for the place where you're headed to. You can do it if you study the movies. But you will always be pretending that you don't wake up lonely and afraid in the middle of the night."

Cary Tennis. "Since you asked: Attracting the wrong women," [There's a kind of girl I like, but I don't seem to get anywhere with her because I don't speak the 'cool people' language.] Salon.com (April 23, 2003).

VocabVitamins.com
Tune in tomorrow for: OPACITY

Jeen Lilly

2005-01-14T13:14:00.000-05:00

I write alot.
But I recently discovered why it's hard for me to write fiction -- since my oevure's style is ...hmmm confessional, I suppose would be a good name for it, my entre nous funny tends to get argued and washed out when too much fiction tresspasses into it. I will go to great lengths to make it laughable -- but buried not-too-deep I find the funniest stuff has a diamond core of truth to it. likewise, I may start out writing a piece of fiction that gets a weird turn of reality -- all of a sudden I've got a flying fish from my past launching out of my stream of consciousness, and I wonder what disturbed it -- and what do I DO with this wriggling icky toothy alien life form gasping for it's accustomed breathable mix of H2O.
so I solved my problem of being me (hahaHA!) by creating a fictional character -- who writes biographically.
She's a screen, a beard, drawing board AND circular file. an Etch-A-Sketch.
Hardly a new idea -- Kilgore Trout, Carson Wheeler, (Vonnegut and Garrison Keillor respectively) are long time fictional aliases who tell a biographical sort of fiction.
good grief that IS Keillor's whole schtick.
Indeed anyone who writes fiction in the first person temporarily slips on a persona other than him/herself.
I've noticed this creation of mine is more me than I am.
That could be a red flag for a psychological disorder -- or more likely (of course since it's what I THINK, how reliable is it?!) what it is plain old healthy ego inventing itself.
Out of the shattered mess I am to start with, I have this idea of who I want to be... and permission to be it.
Jeen Lilly. Me -- as a semi-grown up.
ohhh yeah. Let the analysis begin....

oh, for a CUUPS to over flow....

2005-01-11T03:32:00.001-05:00

I believe in Music, Love, and Doing No Harm.
Amazing how many people that throws in a tizzy.

Jesus has a lot of cool songs. I don't cringe when I hear gospel music -- I have learned to get beyond the names and labels and Love the Recognition of the Cosmic Oneness, whatever name it goes by.
That might insult the sheep --but I don't care for sheep -- either to be one of them, eat them, or shepherd them, spiritually speaking.

My religious / spiritual beliefs are not Judeo /Christian / Islamic. I was raised Roman Catholic, and was even married in a Catholic Church (my husband desired it, and at the time I was very much in love with him and compromised on a LOT of things, as most non-traditionalists do when love is the trump card.)
I think of all the traditional faiths, I probably lean most towards Judaism (actually I just really dig the Yiddish cuss words =) ) but I do work as a spiritual counselor (high falutin' name for someone who listens to other people's problems and helps them see their situation and path more clearly) and I am"officially listed" as a Matrilinealist Neo-Pagan Comparative Mythologist Eclectic. Uh-huh.
lol.
translation: I believe in the Divine Feminine, following the Wheel of the Year, Nature-loving, tree hugging thang. I study all the worlds religious paths and look for the Light and the Love in them.
I am a seeker, and I strive for balance.
Some people call it Wicca.
Some people call it Fluffy Bunny Paganism.
Some people call it really negative things.
All the names for it are inadequate. But I'll settle for Pagan.

I started studying Paganism because I realized I *was* different. I am Empathic. That was a pretty big realization. I needed to learn to deal with that, and it's an on going process.
Pagans at least acknowledge the existence of extra-sensory perception. It's amazing what a little training and acceptance rather than ostracism / condemnation can do for the soul.

Over the time I have been on the list, I have had a few heated discussions off list with people who are "Good" Christians. I am very careful to not use the "W" word when I talk to Bible reading Christians, as becoming their sacrificial pig-roast floor show at a Revival Meetin' is not my idea of a good time. Call me selfish on that one.
Anyway...
I talk to people about religion on a daily basis. Most people go through a period of rebelling against what ever their parents indoctrinated them into. ( being that I deal mostly with people interested in Wicca and witchcraft, there is that flavor of "I'm baaaad..." I usually tell them to go read a book (yep, there's a list of recommended reading) and come back when they have a few ideas that aren't out of tv and the movies. sheesh.)
Actually the more on-line contact I have with Wiccans the more I feel distanced from them. Since most of my devotion has been as a solitary practitioner -- my Paganism is eclectic in the extreme. For instance --
I don't shoot the messenger if he's Jesus Christ. (although there was a popular book entitled, "If You Meet Buddha on the Road, Kill Him." It was about the Buddhist's removal from serving the ego.) There are a few militant fundamentalist Pagans who are so Anti-Christian (as a pre-strike counter-attack) they get riled up if any fellow Pagan has a good word about "God's Manifestation as Jesus ". That really saddens me -- as much as the wooly-brained ignorance of Bible thumpers.

Joseph Campbell wrote a famous book called "The Hero With 1,000 Faces": it discusses the archetypal journey of the Hero through the seasons of his life through the mythologies of several cultures. We are all the heroes of our own stories, each one unique as the person living it -- but: all the same, as well. What Campbell did was see the patterns of similarity, and instead of defending one as the "truth" and disproving all the others by denying them, he said -- "Isn't it fascinating how we share so much even though we have never met? -- But we have," he said.
Our stories are the same stories, with different bits tossed in for local flavor.
The human experience is transcendent. If you do it right =)

There are a dozen translations or more of the Bible. I am particularly fond of the New Oxford -- clear, readable reference, with the apocrypha. The Lamsa Bible is translated from the Aramaic; poetic and easier to get your mind around than the King James, which seems to purposefully distance itself from being user friendly. My newest acqusition is "The New World" translation -- that's the JW bible, and it is not bad at all.
The Bible is a handy book to be familiar with -- but I have never accepted it as gospel.
I keep an open mind, but it takes so very little application of intelligence to see what a mess of cut and paste the Bible and Christianity is. Scary and dangerous, too.

Ever hear of the ABCDEF? It's a classic guide for determining the "danger"element of any sort of beliefs system: the higher the score, the moredangerous a group is likely to be. It's creator deliberately omits any numerical scoring system, preferring to leave it more to intuition:

The Advanced Bonewits Cult Danger Evaluation Frame
Rate each of the following from 1(low) to 10 (high)...
___ Internal control, amount of internal political power exercised by leader(s) over members.
___ Wisdom claimed by leader(s); amount of infallibility declared about decisions.
___ Wisdom credited to leader(s) by members; amount of trust in decisions made by leader(s).
___ Dogma, rigidity of reality concepts taught; amount of doctrinal inflexibility.
___ Recruiting, emphasis on attracting new members; amount of proselytizing.
___ Front groups, number of subsidiary groups using different names from that of the main group.
___ Wealth, amount of money and/or property desired or obtained; emphasis on members' donations.
___Political power, amount of external political influence desired or obtained.
___Sexual manipulation of members by leader(s); amount of control over sex lives of members.
___ Censorship, amount of control over members' access to outside opinions on the group, its doctrines, and/or its leader(s).
___ Dropout control, intensity of efforts directed at preventing or returning dropouts.
___ Endorsement of violence when used by or for the group or its leader(s).
___ Paranoia, amount of fear concerning real or imagined enemies; perceived power of opponents.
___ Grimness, amount of disapproval concerning jokes about the group, its doctrines, or its leader(s).

According to that, most Judeo/Christian/Islamic organized religions are VERY dangerous.
Interesting huh?
'course Christianity is a relatively new religion, and cobbled together from the bits and pieces of assimilated, conquered local Pantheonic faiths. Old gods become freshly minted saints. Some chafe -- as the whitewashing flakes off -- a bit more telling than others.

a writer friend of mine wrote a gorgeous poem about her personal relationship with God:

Preparing for the Period
by XristiM

There is a God in awe and splendor shrouded,
a God of stern judgment, of mighty wrath,
and fearful vengeance.
He rumbles in the ears and from the lips of others,
displays to them the flames,
to them makes promises of cooling waters.

He has nothing to do with me.

He is not the God to whom I daily speak.
Such grandeur would overpower and stun me,
such fervor cower me.
His company could bring no joy.

I have instead for daily use a walk-around God,
He sometimes wonders
at my lack of wonder,
but understands that often
I do not understand.
He thinks that no great problem.
My old age, after all, to Him is budding youth,
my life a fragment of all time
too small for measurement by any scale He uses.

He knows when the sentence of my life
will reach its period,
past the interruptive semicolons and commas,
the dashes and ellipses of my experience;
past the true or false tests of childhood,
the multiple choice examinations of my middle years,
with their limited options and the painful penalties
for efforts to expand their number;
and past this present time,
when every question demands an essay in response,
a careful balancing of possibilities teetering
upon the cusp of mind and belief.

My education has eternity before it.
I anticipate a kindly schoolmaster,
an entrance examination I can pass.
~

I love how she uses the forms of punctuation and the growing complications of the question and answers that we face as life becomes more choices and lengthier answers.

as for me... I've found I don't need a name for what I believe.
It's stronger without boundaries...
I just include everything and everyone that has Love at it's core.

sounds pretty UU though. *-)

Love and Light
)0(

Remiss

2005-01-11T02:36:00.000-05:00

"Common sense and a sense of humor are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humor is just common sense, dancing." ~ William James.

Been remiss and distracted. It happens. Even when you're like me, with very little to distract you.
I've got stuff on my mind I am working through and most of it just hasn't jelled to words yet.
I hope you are all doing well.

between.

2005-01-04T00:38:00.000-05:00

So far this year bites.

It has only been 3 days. right? AUGH!!

I'm preoccupied with thoughts of mortality -- a dear on-line friend of mine is in the hospital: her name is MsD: on her 72nd birthday (Dec 28th) she suffered what was thought to be a massive stroke. The lady is not in great health to begin with; but the thing of it is -- I am feeling particularly guilt ridden because I stepped down from the group where I'd been part of the management team with this woman -- whom I love and respect as a role model, more so than anyone else I know. (Really -- the only thing that brought me back to that group daily was having contact with her. I was otherwise not motivated to be a full time active member there. AND I had gotten to the point I had no patience for open chat rooms..) So I stepped down...

But I did stop into the group once a week or so. Guiltily. Not fitting into the parameters, but missing MsD, (and a handful of posters)...

Just to be absolutely clear on this:

I'd swap my useless life for MsD's continuance with no regrets.

If only it were that easy to make a difference.

This is depressing me on several levels -- selfish and small levels. I'm working through it. Alone. When I did mention it to another friend on line the response I got was -- stunning. to paraphrase,

"I know she meant alot to you -- but after a major stroke it's better if they go quickly: and I thought you were done with that group?.."

When I mentioned it to the people around me IRL it was as if I'd started talking about an imaginary friend... and why don't I call my own mother, don't I give a hoot about HER?!

You see my mother is not well, either. I have not spoken to her for months. I have nothing to say to her -- and I will not be her audience for the gossip and assumptions her opinions are fabricated from. This is seen as a ballsy, tho selfish indulgence on my part. "Somebody" has to care.

That is what paying attention to my mother comes down to -- "Somebody" has to care.

That's not what I learned from her. Maybe it was the lesson she gave -- but I would rather be ignored wholly than attended to out of obligation.

The one possession I own outright is Integrity. To me -- this is no small thing. And I KNOW you can't eat it or use it to pay bills or that it will love you back with a heart beating naked against your own. But I grew up cowering and I got along being nothing to anyone but support; to be used and not thought of as worthy of anything more.

I am imperfect -- but perfection is not, has never been my goal. Being real, and knowing the truth -- in glimpses of it -- that is all there is for me.

Love? Fugettaboutit. That is an abstract and conditional thing outside of my control. I am not talking about fellowship and friendship. That is something that flows between people of like minds and some mutual level of existence, depending on your own expansiveness. Love is that and something more.

No Love for me in this lifetime. It has been made painfully clear to me the conditions expected are unmeetable.

Happy effing New Year.

I am writing...

2005-01-03T23:59:00.000-05:00

been writing around the web. These were into the NYT's food and wine forum.

jeen_lilly - 1:37 PM ET January 2, 2005 (#7834 of 7841)

Shirley O. Corriher inquiry...
Ok. So what IS the difference between using bleached flour and unbleached flour in a cake?
Shirley O. Corriher, who is the Next Step Fanny Farmer (IMHO) was recently interviewed in the NYT science section (Dec. 28th 2004): Her amazing first book, "Cookwise" gave a scientific reason for the transformations on food proteins when put with other food proteins with applied heat (among other things). It's a terrific cookbook, one of my all time favorites (being a smarty-pants know-it-all, having good reference works to turn to is crucial). Her next book is to be titled, "Bakewise" and it applies the same scientific examination to the art and science of baking. Sweeet!
However: in the examples of recipes that went along with the article, Shirley specified "bleached all-purpose flour" -- which of course is not what I use, or any other serious baker I know of -- yep -- we is all elitist, UN-bleached flour users!
So what is up with Bodhi Shirley and her bleached flour? What does she know that I don't -- besides oh, the obvious wealth of research, experience and degrees that span the chasm between us?

jeen_lilly - 10:37 PM ET January 3, 2005 (#7841 of 7841)

The Usual Grind
First of all -- good points. You are decrying the "average" consumer who gets their ground meat from Supermarket chains and generally the prime motivation for buying the bulk-brick of pre-ground meat is price. Living on the edge of poverty while keeping a roof over one's head, the heat and electricity on, a car running with all the insurance premiums up to date -- food is just another expense to be met and putting a meal on the table that is within hollarin' range of nutritionally acceptable is often the best that can be theoretically HOPED FOR. Never mind accomplished.
Supply for the demand. Long as it's sorta red and assumed to be from a cow...
Soylent Green by any other name...

Food, however is seen by many (this forum of course excluded) as a tediously necessary, evil demand -- to be assuaged -- as expeditiously as possible.
You *gotta eat*.
No one ever guaranteed you'd get to eat WELL.
This is not the best of all possible worlds. There are enclaves where people with some elasticity to their budget can afford to shop for the "better grade" food stuffs with actual SERVICE rendering Butchers behind the counter.
We all know the adage, "You get what you pay for." (provided you keep your eyes open and pay attention to the man behind the curtain!)
I know that if the general public were made aware of the re-ground-grinding of their "fresh meat" there would be little outcry, because..
"that is the price you pay for lower prices."
Being a consumer driven economy, the average member of this great society is CONDITIONED to expect cheap stuff at a cheap price.
There would be fewer tables offering beef if the prices went up -- and adding labor costs, shipping considerably more whole carcasses, yadda yadda yadda...
And it is hardly elitist of me to say most Average Americans do not read the NYT nor participate in the Times forum discussions -- it is an inverted elitism to think yourself -- you, reading this right now -- are an "Average American."
In Europe, food is MORE. It is a daily sacrament as humble and powerful an offering as body and blood, shared in communion amongst the apostlates who KNOW the ethos and celebrate the message.
Here in America, we train our children to slurp yogurt from an aseptic squeeze tube.
Because we are on the GO.
If only to hell in a shopping cart...

Clairvoyance

2004-12-29T01:39:00.000-05:00

what follows is an address written by Henry Drummond.
What's a Pagan like me doing taking the work of a Victorian Theologian and offering it up to my friends with a sincere and joyful heart?
Things without equal are equal to each other.
Love goes by many Names -- but When you truly Love; the only name that matters IS Love.
Drummond was born in Scotland in 1851.
I'm torn -- my introduction to his work was The Greatest Thing in the World -- and that is as transforming and brilliant a piece of writing as I have ever read. If you click on the link, you can read it in full online. The Changed Life was something I heard read years later; it is a simple prescription for the improvement of character. (I remember thinking at the time -- "Wow, does this guy sound like my Old Boyfriend Henry." Little did I know...)
But, in browsing the website with most of the Professor's works on it, I found this one -- which pretty much enlarges and examines Val's meditation of magenta.
I don't post it to lessen the lesson from your soul, my friend -- just to share that when you are on the right path, you reflect the Oneness that a few others have taken the time to reflect upon as well.
this is published in the collection, The Ideal Life.

enjoy!

"We look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal."--2 COR. iv. 18.

"Everything that is, is double." --Hermes Trismegistus.

"LOOK not at the things which are seen." How can we look not at the things which are seen? If they are seen, how can we help looking at them? "Look at the things which are not seen." How can we look at things which are not seen? Has religion some magic wishing-cap, making the solid world invisible, or does it supply some strange clairvoyance power to see that which is unseen?
This is one of those alluring paradoxes which all great books delight in, which baffle thought while courting it, but which disclose to whoever picks the lock the rarest and profoundest truth. The surface meaning of a paradox is either nonsense, or it is false. In this case it is false. One would gather, at first sight, that we had here another of those attacks upon the world, of which the Bible is supposed to be so fond. It reads as a withering contrast between the things of time and the things of eternity--as an unqualified disparagement of this present world. The things which are seen are temporal--not worth a moment's thought, not even to be looked at.
In reality, this is neither the judgment of the Bible nor of reason.
There are four reasons why we should look at the things which are seen--
1. First, because God made them. Anything that God makes is worth looking at. We live in no chance world. It has been all thought out. Everywhere work has been spent on it lavishly --thought and work--loving thought and exquisite work. All its parts together, and every part separately, are stamped with skill, beauty, and purpose. As the mere work of a Great Master we are driven to look--deliberately and long--at the things which are seen.
2. But, second, God made us to look at them. He who made light made the eye. It is a gift of the Creator on purpose that we may look at the things which are seen. The whole mechanism of man is made with reference to the temporal world-- the eye for seeing it, the ear for hearing it, the nerve for feeling it, the muscle for moving about on it and getting more of it. He acts contrary to his own nature who harbours even a suspicion of the things that are seen.
3. But again, thirdly, God has not merely made the world, but He has made it conspicuous. So far from lying in the shade, so far from being constituted to escape observation, the whole temporal world clamours for it. Nature is never and nowhere silent. If you are apathetic, if you will not look at the things which are seen, they will summon you. The bird will call to you from the tree-top, the sea will change her mood for you, the flower looks up appealingly from the wayside, and the sun, before he sets with irresistible colouring, will startle you into attention. The Creator has determined that, whether He be seen or no, no living soul shall tread His earth without being spoken to by these works of His hands. God has secured that. And even those things which have no speech nor language, whose voice is not heard, have their appeal going out to all the world, and their word to the end of the earth. Had God feared that the visible world had been a mere temptation to us, He would have made it less conspicuous. Certainly He has warned us not to love it, but nowhere not to look at it.
4. The last reason, fourthly, is the greatest of all. Hitherto we have been simply dealing with facts. Now we come to a principle. Look at the things that are seen, because it is only by looking at the things that are seen that we can have any idea of the things that are unseen. Our whole conception of the eternal is derived from the temporal.
Take any unseen truth, or fact, or law. The proposition is that it can be apprehended by us only by means of the seen and temporal. Take the word eternal itself. What do we know of Eternity? Nothing that we have not learned from the temporal. When we try to realize that word there rises up before us the spaceless sea. We glide swiftly over it day after day, but the illimitable waste recedes before us, knowing no end. On and on, week and month, and there stretches the same horizon vague and infinite, the far-off circle we can never reach. We stop. We are far enough. This is Eternity!
In reality, this is not Eternity; it is mere water, the temporal, liquid and tangible. But by looking at this thing which is seen we have beheld the unseen. Here is a river. It is also water. But its different shape mirrors a different truth. As we look, the opposite of Eternity rises up before us. There is Time, swift and silent; or Life, fleeting and irrevocable. So one might run over all the material of his thoughts, all the groundwork of his ideas, and trace them back to things that are temporal. They are really material, made up of matter, and in order to think at all, one must first of all see.
Nothing could illustrate this better, perhaps, than the literary form of our English Bible. Leaving out for the present the language of symbol and illustration which Christ spoke, there is no great eternal truth that is not borne to us upon some material image. Look, for instance, at its teaching about human life. To describe that, it does not even use the words derived from the temporal world. It brings us face to face with the temporal world, and lets us abstract them for ourselves. It never uses the word "fleeting" or "transitory." It says life is a vapour that appeareth for a little and vanisheth away. It likens it to a swift post, a swift ship, a tale that is told.
It never uses the word "irrevocable." It speaks of water spilt on the ground that cannot be gathered up again--a thread cut by the weaver. Nor does it tell us that life is "evanescent." It suggests evanescent things--a dream, a sleep, a shadow, a shepherd's tent removed. And even to convey the simpler truth that life is short, we find only references to short things that are seen--a handbreadth, a pilgrimage, a flower, a weaver's shuttle. The Bible in these instances is not trying to be poetical: it is simply trying to be true. And it distinctly, unconsciously, recognizes the fact that truth can be borne into the soul only through the medium of things. We must refuse to believe, therefore, that we are not to look at the things which are seen. It is a necessity; for the temporal is the husk and framework of the eternal. And the things which are not seen are made of the things which do appear. "All visible things," said Carlyle, "are emblems. What thou seest is not there on its own account; strictly speaking, is not there at all. Matter exists only spiritually, and to represent some idea and body it forth." And so John Ruskin:--"The more I think of it, I find this conclusion more impressed upon me--that the greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think; but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion --all in one."
From this point we can now go on from the negative of the paradox to the second and positive term--"Look at the things which are not seen." We now understand how to do this. Where is the eternal? Where are the unseen things, that we may look at them? And the answer is--in the temporal. Look then at the temporal, but do not pause there. You must penetrate it. Go through it, and see its shadow, its spiritual shadow, on the further side. Look upon this shadow long and earnestly, till that which you look through becomes the shadow, and the shadow merges into the reality. Look through till the thing you look through becomes dim, then transparent, and then invisible, and the unseen beyond grows into form and strength. For, truly, the first thing seen is the shadow, the thing on the other side the reality. The thing you see is only a solid, and men mistake solidity for reality. But that alone is the reality--the eternal which lies behind. Look, then, not at the things which are seen, but look through them to the things that are unseen.
The great lesson which emerges from all this is as to the religious use of the temporal world. Heaven lies behind earth. This earth is not merely a place to live in, but to see in. We are to pass through it as clairvoyants, holding the whole temporal world as a vast transparency, through which the eternal shines.
Let us now apply this principle briefly to daily life. To most of us, the most practical division of life is threefold: the Working life, the Home life, and the Religious life. What do these yield us of the eternal, and how?
1. The Working Life. To most men, work is just work-- manual work, professional work, office work, household work, public work, intellectual work. A yellow primrose is just a yellow primrose; a spade is a spade; a ledger is a ledger; a lexicon is a lexicon. To a worker with this mind, so far as spiritual uses are concerned therefore, work is vanity--an unaccountable squandering of precious time. He must earn his success by the sweat of his brow; that is all he knows about it. It is a curse, lying from the beginning upon man as man. So, six days each week, he bends his neck to it doggedly; the seventh God allows him to think about the unseen and eternal.
Now God would never unspiritualise three-fourths of man's active life by work, if work were work, and nothing more.
A second workman sees a little further. His work is not a curse exactly; it is his appointed life, his destiny. It is God's will for him, and he must go through with it. No doubt its trials are good for him; at all events, God has appointed him this sphere, and he must accept it with Christian resignation.
It is a poor compliment to the Divine arrangements if they are simply to be acquiesced in. The all-wise God surely intends some higher outcome from three-fourths of life than bread and butter and resignation.
To the spiritual man, next, there lies behind this temporal a something which explains all. He sees more to come out of it than the year's income, or the employment of his allotted time, or the benefiting of his species. If violins were to be the only product, there is no reason why Stradivarius should spend his life in making them. But work is an incarnation of the unseen. In this loom man's soul is made. There is a subtle machinery behind it all, working while he is working, making or unmaking the unseen in him. Integrity, thoroughness, honesty, accuracy, conscientiousness, faithfulness, patience--these unseen things which complete a soul are woven into it in work. Apart from work, these things are not. As the conductor leads into our nerves the invisible electric force, so work conducts into our spirit all high forces of character, all essential qualities of life, truth in the inward parts. Ledgers and lexicons, business letters, domestic duties, striking of bargains, writing of examinations, handling of tools--these are the conductors of the eternal. So much the conductors of the eternal, that without them there is no eternal. No man dreams integrity, accuracy, and so on. He cannot learn them by reading about them. These things require their wire as much as electricity. The spiritual fluids and the electric fluids are under the same law; and messages of grace come along the lines of honest work to the soul like the invisible message along the telegraph wires. Patience, spiritually, will travel along a conductor as really as electricity.
A workshop, therefore, or an office, or a school of learning, is a gigantic conductor. An office is not a place for making money--it is a place for making character. A workshop is not a place for making machinery--it is a place for making men: not for turning wood, for fitting engines, for founding cylinders --to God's eye, it is a place for founding character; it is a place for fitting in the virtues to one's life, for turning out honest, modest-tempered God-fearing men. A school of learning is not so much a place for making scholars, as a place for making souls. And he who would ripen and perfect the eternal element in his being will do this by attending to the religious uses of his daily task, recognizing the unseen in its seen, and so turning three-fourths of each day's life into an ever-acting means of grace.
We say some kinds of work are immoral. A man who is turning out careless, imperfect work, is turning out a careless imperfect character for himself. He is touching deceit every moment; and this unseen thing rises up from his work like a subtle essence, and enters and poisons his soul. We say piece-work is immoral--it makes a man only a piece of a man, shuts him out from variety, and originality, and adaptation, narrowing and belittling his soul. But we forget the counter-truth, that honest and good work makes honesty and goodness, integrity and thoroughness--nay that it alone makes them. And the man who would ripen and perfect his soul must attend to the religious uses of his daily work--seeing the unseen in its seen--heeding it, not with a dry punctiliousness, but lovingly, recognizing its dignity, not as a mere making of money, but as an elaborate means of grace, occupying three-fourths of life.
2. The Family Life. Next, life is so ordered that another large part of it is spent in the family. This also, therefore, has its part to play in the completing of the soul. The working life could never teach a man all the lessons of the unseen. A whole set of additional messages from the eternal have to be conducted into his soul at home. This is why it is not good for a man to be alone. A lonely man is insulated from the eternal--inaccessible to the subtle currents which ought to be flowing hourly into his soul.
Here, too, is a higher source of spirituality than work. It is here that life dawns, and the first mould is given to the plastic substance. Home is the cradle of Eternity. It has been secured, therefore, that the first laws stamped here, the first lines laid down, the permanent way for the future soul, should be at once the lines of the eternal. Why do all men say that the family is a divine institution? Because God instituted it? But what guided Him in constituting it as it is? Eternity. Home is a preliminary Heaven. Its arrangements are purely the arrangements of Heaven. Heaven is a Father with His children. The parts we shall play in that great home are just the parts we have learned in the family here. We shall go through the same life there--only without the matter. This matter is a mere temporary quality to practice the eternal on--as wooden balls are hung up in a schoolroom to teach the children numbers till they can think them for themselves.
When a parent wishes to teach his child form and harmony, the properties of matter, beauty, and symmetry--all these unseen things--what does he do but give his child things that are seen, through which he can see them? He gives him a box of matter, bricks of wood, as playthings, and the child, in forming and transforming these, in building with them lines and squares, arches and pillars, has borne into his soul regularity and stability, form and symmetry. So God deals with us. The material universe is a mere box of bricks. We exercise our growing minds upon it for a space, till in the hereafter we become men, and childish things are put away. The temporal is but the scaffolding of the eternal; and when the last immaterial souls have climbed through this material to God, the scaffolding shall be taken down, and the earth dissolved with fervent heat--not because it is evil, but because its work is done.
The mind of Christ is to be learned in the family. Strength of character may be acquired at work, but beauty of character is learned at home. There the affections are trained--that love especially which is to abide when tongues have ceased and knowledge fails. There the gentle life reaches us, the true heaven-life. In one word, the family circle is the supreme conductor of Christianity. Tenderness, humbleness, courtesy, self-forgetfulness, faith, sympathy; these ornaments of a meek and quiet spirit are learned at the fireside, round the table, in common-place houses, in city streets. We are each of us daily embodying these principles in our soul, or trampling them out of it, in the ordinary intercourse of life. As actors in a charade, each member of the house each day, consciously or unconsciously, acts a word. The character is the seen, the word the unseen, and whether he thinks of the word at night or not, the souls of all around have guessed it silently; and when the material mask and costume are put away, and their circumstances long years forgotten, that word of eternity lives on to make or mar the player, and all the players with him, in that day's game of life.
To waken a man to all that is involved in each day's life, in even its insignificant circumstance and casual word and look, surely you have but to tell him all this--that in these temporals lie eternals; that in life, not in church, lies religion; that all that is done or undone, said or unsaid, of right or wrong, has its part, by an unalterable law, in the eternal life of all.
3. We now come to Religion. And we shall see further how God has put even that for us into the temporal. Reflect for a moment upon the teaching of Christ. All that He had to say of the eternal He put up in images of the temporal world. What are all His parables, His allusions to nature, His illustrations from real life, His metaphors and similes, but disclosures to our blind eyes of the unseen in the seen? In reality, the eternal is never nearer us than in a material image. Reason cannot bring religion near us, only things can. So Christ never demonstrated anything. He did not appeal to the reasoning power in man, but to the seeing power-- that power of imagination which deals with images of things.
That is the key to all Christ's teaching-- that He spoke not to the reason but to the imagination. Incessantly he held up things before our eyes--things which in a few days or years would moulder into dust--and told us to look there at the eternal. He held up bread. "I am the bread," He said. And if you think over that for a lifetime, you will never get nearer to the truth than through that thing, bread. That temporal is so perfect an image of the eternal, that no reading, or thinking, or arguing, or sermonizing, can get us closer to Christ.
Hence the triumphant way in which he ransacked the temporal world, and--what we, with our false views of spirituality, had never dared--marked off for us all its common and familiar things as mirrors of the eternal. So light, life, vine, bread, water, physician, shepherd, and a hundred others, have all become transformed with a light from the other world. Observe, Christ does not say he is like these things, He is these things. Look through these things, right through, and you will see Him. We disappoint our souls continually in trying, by some other way than through these homely temporals, to learn the spiritual life.
It is the danger of those who pursue the intellectual life as a specialty to miss this tender and gracious influence. The student of the family, by a generous though perilous homage paid to learning is allowed to be an exception to family life. He dwells apart, goes his own way, lives his own life; and unconsciously, and to his pain, he finds himself, perhaps, gradually looking down on its homelier tasks and less transcendent interests. In society, it is for the scholar we make allowances; but the eccentricities which we condone on account of their high compensations often mark an arrested development of what is really higher. And there is nothing so much to fear in oneself, and to check with more resolute will, than the unconscious tendency in all who pursue culture to get out of step with humanity, and be not at home at home.
A very remarkable instance of Christ's use of this principle is the Sacraments. His design there was to perpetuate in the most luminous and arresting way, the two grandest facts of the spiritual world. How did He proceed? He made them visible. He associated these facts with the two commonest things in the world, water and bread and wine--the every-day diet at every peasant's board. By these Sacraments, the souls of men are tied down at the most sacred moments of life to the homeliest temporal things; so that the highest spirituality, by Christ's own showing, comes to God's children through lowly forms of the material world. Transcendentalism in religion is a real mistake. True spirituality is to see the divinity in common things .
But, yet again, there is a more wonderful exhibition of this law than the Sacraments. God furnished the world with a temporal thing for every eternal thing save one. Every eternal truth had its material image in the world, every eternal law had its working-model among the laws of nature. But there was one thing wanting. There was no temporal for the Eternal God Himself. And man missed it. He wished to see even this unseen in something seen. In the sea, he saw eternity; in space, infinity; in the hills, sublimity; in the family, love; in the state, law. But there was no image of God. One speaks of what follows with bated breath. God gave it! God actually gave it! God made a seen image of Himself--not a vision, not a metaphor--an express image of His person. He laid aside His invisibility, He clothed Himself with the temporal, He took flesh and dwelt among us. The Incarnation was the eternal become temporal for a little time, that we might look at it.
It was our only way of beholding it, for we can only see the unseen in the seen. The word "God" conveyed no meaning; there was no seen thing to correspond to that word, and no word is intelligible till there is an image for it. So God gave religion its new word in the intelligible form--a Word in flesh --that, henceforth, all men might behold God's glory, not in itself, for that is impossible, but in the face of Jesus. This is the crowning proof of the religious use of the temporal world.
Three classes of men, finally, have taken up their position in recent years with reference to this principle of the eternal uses of the temporal world.
One will not look at the unseen at all--the materialist. He is utterly blind to the eternal. The second is utterly blind to the temporal--the mystic. He does not look for the unseen in the seen, but apart from the seen. He works, or tries to work, by direct vision. The third is neither blind to the unseen nor to the seen, but short-sighted to both. The ritualist selects some half-dozen things from the temporal world, and tries to see the unseen in them. As if there were only some half-dozen things---crosses and vestments, music and stained glass-- through which the eternal shone! The whole world is a ritual-- that is the answer. If a man means to evade God, let him look for Him in some half-dozen forms; he will evade Him, he will not see Him anywhere else. But let him who wishes to get near God, and be with God always, move in a religious atmosphere always; let him take up his position beside this truth. Worldliness has been defined as a looking at the things that are seen, but only closely enough to see their market value. Spirituality is that further look which sees their eternal value, which realizes that
"Earth's crammed with Heaven,
And every common bush afire with God."

2004-12-28T01:48:00.000-05:00

from Our Voices:
I recently heard (need to find a link) that our pal Rummy is catching heat for not signing letters of condolence to the families who have lost their loved ones in this g'd forsaken war. Instead he has had the letters prefab'd and ran through a machine that stamps his siggy. Wouldn't it be quite the statement if we could get everyone we know to mail him a bic pen? ...
... Since we are allegedly only loosing a few troops at a time, you'd think he could be bothered to sign the letters by hand.

so I thought...
Dear Secretary Rumsfeld,
I understand that you are beseiged on many fronts about the Iraqi war and are taking heat from everyone -- from soldiers in the field to the families of deceased troop units who just don't understand what a busy and important man you are. I think it is just awful that everyone comes down on you for things you have no control over -- do you pull the trigger of the insurgent's Russian made automatic weapons? Heck no! Like you said, "we go to war with the army we've got -- not the one we wish we could have." I think Americans everywhere should stop acting like whimpy babies and get with your program! You hang in there, Mr. Secretary! This is your war, and I can see you are doing everything in your power to make it a good one!
I tell you -- it does my heart proud to see someone truly raised to their highest level of incompetence.
You sir, are nearly as gormless and feckless as the Master Boob himself. I am so glad you are standing your ground and refusing to resign from the cabinet -- let those other rats desert that ship of fools, but not you, Rummy! You are made of stickier stuff!
I do have one tiny little critique for you, Sir -- I suggest you get a pen with red ink in it to sign the letters of condolences. First off -- it'll prove you actually took the time to sign the letter, if not read the name of the useless layabout dead meat too stupid to get out of the way of whatever it was that made him or her DD: and second -- it should bring a warm memory of the first time you signed your name in blood.
Just wanted to say -- I think of you often, you make me smile, and I salute you!

warmest regards,
Satan.

Red Suit Blues

2004-12-24T02:00:00.000-05:00

ohhhh Santa Baby! Really makes you think....

Ho! Ho! Is More Like Uh-Oh
Thu Dec 23, 7:55 AM ET

Top Stories - Los Angeles Times
By J.R. Moehringer Times Staff Writer
Some days, the fat man just wants the fat lady to sing.

He wishes the holiday season would end already. His back aches, his red suit feels like a spacesuit, his cheeks have gone numb from smiling for 12 hours â and still the kids keep coming and coming, like ants at a picnic.
"When the last gig of the season is finito," says Victor Nevada, 61, a professional Santa Claus in Calgary, Canada, "I have a bottle of rye whiskey and some Diet Coke by the bed, and a couple of novels, and I'll phone in for pizza, and I won't get out of bed for two days, and if I don't see another child again till next Christmas â that's OK with me."
It didn't used to be this way. For a century or so, being Santa was something like being a golfer on the senior tour â a leisurely, seasonal pastime for men of a certain age and genteel demeanor. But being Santa has changed dramatically in the last few years, say Santas across the U.S. and Canada. More taxing, more complicated, the job now comes with grueling hours and hidden pressures.
As Christmas becomes more commercialized, so must Santa. As the holiday begins earlier each year, so must its spokesman and standard-bearer. What used to be a three-week gig has become a two-month grind, from the day after Halloween to New Year's. Often you answer to three equally demanding bosses â the parent, the mall, the photographer â and one all-powerful overseer, the child, who has come to view Santa as a cross between a birthday party clown and a miracle worker. A hybrid of Bozo and God.
Carl Anderson, a psychologist and adjunct professor at the University of Texas at Austin, wrote his dissertation about the effects of Santa on children. He's read widely and deeply on the subject of Santa, whom he calls a hopeful and comforting figure that historically provides solace during times of war and economic hardship. "You go back far enough," Anderson says, "that's the whole origin of the custom. Whenever there's a need for hope, there's more turning to Santa, more energy given to it."
It's a lot for one man to carry on his red velvet shoulders.
Maybe all this added pressure isn't the reason a Santa in Atlanta earlier this month knocked a woman cold with a 2-by-4. Maybe it's not why 30 Santas got into a drunken street brawl two weeks ago at a charity fundraiser in Wales. (Five Santas were arrested.) But it's undoubtedly why so many professional Santas sound edgy, spent, as if they might come down with the flu before they come down the chimney.
"It's changed a lot," Nevada says wearily. "It's gotten to be more professional."
As "Canada's Top Claus," according to one Canadian newspaper, and as headmaster of his own Santa school, Nevada knows the Santa business inside out â from beard to boots â and he laments how much "civilians" take for granted. "Everybody thinks it's easy," he says in an accent that splices traces of Burl Ives, Austin Powers, Dylan Thomas and Mike Ditka. "You put the suit on. If you wear a fake beard, great, go for it. You practice your 'ho-hos.' Great. You're ready to go. But you're not. Not psychologically."
For starters, the questions from children these days are tougher than ever. True, for as long as children have climbed onto Santa's lap, they have been tenacious interrogators. But now, with thousands of children pining for a father or mother serving in Iraq (news - web sites) or Afghanistan (news - web sites), the questions are as heart-rending as they are unanswerable. Can you please bring Daddy home from the war in time for Christmas morning?
Sometimes children stare intently and ask for peace on Earth. What's a Santa to say?
"I had a little girl on my knee," Nevada recalls, "and she said she wanted 'a happy home' for Christmas. I looked up at the mom, and mom had bruises on her face. Now, what can I do? I can't phone the cops. I can't tell the child, 'Don't worry â Santa will send some hit men over and they'll take care of the old man.' I called Mom over, and she sat on my right knee, and mom and daughter faced each other and we had a little visit. What I could do was give that mom and daughter three or four minutes of peace."
Anderson â who has not only studied Santa, but played him at NorthPark Center in Dallas for the last 16 years â says he starts to feel it right about this time each December. "Late at night, I'm a lot more emotionally vulnerable," he says. "You feel the physicalness of it â the aches and pains of constantly lifting â but then there's the emotional exhaustion."
Also, there's the competition. Top Santas can earn $60,000 a season working the ritziest malls, says Nevada, who charges $500 an hour for his ballyhooed appearances. With so much money on the line, the need to be realistic, to be relevant, to be the best, is intense â and competition among malls is that much stiffer. Every mall wants to say it's got the real Santa under contract, to attract the maximum number of shoppers. "There's a saying in the Santa business," Nevada says. "Santa doesn't drive a sleigh â Santa drives sales."
Cherry Hill Photo Enterprises Inc., in Cherry Hill, N.J., is thought to be the nation's largest supplier of mall Santas, mobilizing a battalion of more than 750 this season. Before hitting a mall, each Cherry Hill Santa has graduated from the company's "Santa University," according Chief Executive Bob Wolfe. Cherry Hill Santas are given common-sense Santa lessons â bathe daily, use strong deodorant â and politically correct caveats: Only refer to a child's "folks," in case the child doesn't have a traditional mother and father.
Nevada has done the math, and he says 40,000 men throughout North America are working the same side of Santa Street, vying for the same malls, parades, private parties and corporate events. And more are coming. As baby boomers age, Nevada says, they will seek ways to augment their retirement income; in the next few years, thousands will bleach their beards, suit up and demand entry to what's routinely called "The Brotherhood of the Fur." The planet, Nevada warns, is about to be lousy with Clauses.
That doesn't even count the Internet, where a booming Santa industry is taking shape. Alan Kerr, founder of EmailSanta.com, says his website has received millions of e-mails in its seven years of existence â 500,000 this season alone. Many e-mails, he says, contain requests even more wrenching than those made in malls, as children turn to Santa for help not only with parents in the military, but parents who are sick, parents who are addicted to drugs and alcohol, parents who are abusive. So Kerr has teamed with child psychologists and police to develop special software that identifies those "in dire circumstances," whom he then directs to the proper social agency.
If the child-Santa relationship has taken on shades of the patient-doctor relationship, some Santas point a white-gloved finger at Oprah and Dr. Phil. In a culture that encourages everyone to discuss their feelings, children apparently have gotten the message. Ten years ago it was relatively rare for a child to open up to Santa. Nowadays, it's de rigueur.
As children open up more, so do Santas. A chat room called Santas Across the Globe is beset by Santas worried about things like flu shots, head lice, the most effective antibacterial hand soaps, the pros and cons of fake beards made from yak hair â and "inappropriate offers while touring seniors centers." There is also some troubled discussion of how to respond to certain photographers who want to pose Santa in unsavory positions and settings, sans red suit.
A reporter recently posted a message in the Santa chat room, saying he was seeking Santas to interview for a piece about the stresses of the job. There was an immediate outbreak of suspicion and alarm. The Santas accused the reporter of being a "hoaxter." "Fellow Kringles," cautioned Kennison Kyle, a 35-year-old Santa from Memphis, Tenn. "Answer at your own choosing. I for one won't be until I know more about the reporter."
When the reporter chided the Santas â "I've heard of people not believing in Santa Claus, but this is the first time Santa Claus didn't believe in me" â the Santas were instantly ashamed. Kyle apologized and vowed to "eat crow with my milk and cookies."
Each year Santas throughout the nation come together in greater numbers for ever larger conventions. They not only share information about costumes and children's questions, but they help one another negotiate the legal complexities of being Santa. Before getting hired by a major mall or photo company, Santas must typically undergo stringent background checks and fingerprinting. After getting hired, they must carry insurance.
"When I started doing this years ago, I never even thought about liability," Nevada says. "But Santas have a pretty good chance of getting sued. You got the obvious things: You drop a child on its head. Then there's Santa saying the wrong thingâ¦. I had a Santa working for me a couple years ago; he had a girl on his knee, and he commented, "You have nice eyes and nice hair.' She claimed sexual harassment."
Such scenarios have led Nevada to labor hard on a comprehensive Santa manual, which he intends to hand out to all students and to the five Santas he employs in his booking agency. It's 260 pages of information every Santa should know, he says. Where to keep your hands. How to paint or bleach a beard. What to say when a child asks for his recently deceased grandma to be resurrected.
"Here at the school," Nevada says, "we instruct the lads to think of any possible situation that might arise, any possible question you might ever get asked, and pre-think those situations ahead of time."
Tim Connaghan, 56, executive director of the Los Angeles-based Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas, which has 451 members around the world, says he always mentally prepares himself while driving to his next job, just like any other actor in town. The other day, however, talking on his cellphone while racing to an appearance at a Brentwood art gallery, Connaghan sounded too pooped to prepare. He'd just finished a visit in Hollywood with 400 children of soldiers, and many of the exchanges were traumatic. "When I started years ago, the only thing you really asked was â Have you been good? We didn't get into discussions."
Ed Butchart, 69, a Santa for 17 years in Stone Mountain, Ga., and the author of "The Red Suit Diaries," says one of the hardest challenges for Santas lately is the expense and sophistication of the toys. Years ago it was Barbies and firetrucks. Now it's iPods and Xboxes. As toys get more expensive, more involved, so does Santa paraphernalia. Fake velvet won't cut it. Kids react to it like sandpaper. They're as picky about the velvet on Santa's lap as some grown-ups are about thread counts in their bedsheets â and the good stuff doesn't come cheap. "The velvet in my costume sells for 25 dollars a yard," Butchart says. "And there's a lot of velvet in it."
Also, Butchart had to shell out recently for a pricey pair of steel-toed black boots, "because of kids jumping off my lap and killing me. A kid jumped off last weekend, came down like a load of bricks on my toe, and I grabbed him and said, 'Ha ha, you missed me!' You got to protect your private parts too. I don't wear a cup or nothing, but it's all in how you sit on your throne. That kid can really hurt you bad."
When a Santa feels put upon or anxious, he often shows it in the same ways civilians do. Nevada has one friend, an immensely popular Santa at a large mall who just completed counseling for job-related depression. "I'll get calls from people wanting to engage my services," Nevada says, "and I always ask, 'Would I be right in thinking you had a Santa at your event last year? I'm curious why that Santa isn't there this year.' And they'll say, 'Oh, the guy showed up drunk.' That's common."
Or else, Nevada says, stressed-out Santas will morbidly overeat. "The show is done â and the Claus hangs around at the buffet table! God almighty. I tell my guys, 'Listen, boys, I don't want you scrounging any bloody food off any client!' "
Santas think themselves justified in bingeing, because being a fatty, after all, is part of the territory. But soon, Nevada predicts, there will be a health-conscious backlash against fat Santas, just as there was an outcry years ago about Santa's pipe. (A trim man, Nevada uses "anatomically correct" padding to replicate the requisite belly.)
Nevada says that, when an event ends, many Santas think it's their right, and a perk of the trade, to demand "a reindeer bag," which is like a doggie bag, only bigger.
"Forget that reindeer bag [expletive]," he tells his students and employees. "And don't think you're going to pass that buffet table and snaffle a couple of sandwiches into your bag. If you do that, and I hear about it, you're fired.
"And this ain't a union shop."

A Particular Shade of Purple.

2004-12-22T14:54:00.000-05:00

The office building I work in is two stories and has a large, square-shaped open central foyer in the middle of the building. The front door and the back door vestibules both open into this grand open area. There is a balcony all around it for the second floor. In the middle of this open foyer is a huge decorated Christmas tree perhaps 16 feet tall or so. On the top of this tree is a large bow. A purple Christmas bow.

I work on the second floor, and when I walk out of my office door at the end of a long hall, I look straight along the corridor to the balcony opening on the open foyer, and the bow is right there, so I see it as I walk the length of the hall every time I go to leave the office.

There is something about this particular shade of purple that I really like. It has a direct and noticeable emotional effect on me. I sometimes stand there at the balcony staring at that big purple bow for a minute or more. I have places to go and a schedule to keep, but that bow has a certain effect on me. It makes me calm. And comfortable. It ‘smoothes’ me at some inner level.

It reminds me of a Christmas once long, long ago when I was young. I was perhaps 5 or 6 years old. There were those highly polished, mirror-finished decoration balls hanging on our tree. I loved the polished metallic colors. Red, gold, silver, blue, green… and a special color I didn’t recognize. It was a kind of purple, but not quite. It was somewhere between pink and purple. Not a girlie pink. Not Barbie pink. But not pure purple either. It had more red in it. I remember asking my mother what color it was and she said it was mauve. So I thought for years that that was what mauve was. But then I saw enough other examples of mauve, that I came to understand mauve was a different color. More of a pastel color. Kind of a lavender hue. Maybe my color was fuche. I still don't know for sure. Whatever it was, I marveled at it. It was just so beautiful. I could stare at it for some time, and just sort of zone-out in meditation.
I sometimes wondered what it would be like to crack open a rock and suddenly discover a new color that no one had ever seen before. A color with no name. Something new in the world. For me, this color was like that - something I had never seen before. And I still only see it very rarely. If it's not shiny reflective metallic, then the color itself would probably look quite different.

Well this bow on this Christmas tree is similar to that color I saw and loved so many years ago. Not mirrored, of course, but it is a shiny iridescent shade of reddish purple that reminds me of it quite a bit. There are ribbons of that bow hanging down the length of the tree on four sides. It is very beautiful.

I like to pause and look at it, and just think what a basic pleasure it is to simply appreciate something that is beautiful. I don’t feel any need to own it or want it for myself. I merely want to see it and appreciate it. In fact, I like it better when it is out there in public where it can add beauty to other people's lives even for a moment, if they take that moment to look and see it there. But most won't of course.

For me, it brings me back to when I was a little boy just staring at the colored reflective Christmas tree decorations. Not everything that is good is expensive and hard to find and impossible to own.

It also reminds me of my father. Because I see that he has always rushed through life looking for the next deal. Looking to protect himself from the next scam, the next crook trying to cheat him out of him money. Always chasing the dollar. Always chasing the deal. Always working. Always running. Never stopping even for a second to simply look at something beautiful. A flower. A tree. A building. A car. A truly beautiful woman. A beautiful little child. A painting. A photograph. Ohhh – there are some photographs that just take my breath away they are so beautiful.

None of that would ever have phased on my father. If it wasn't directly related to some way for him to make money, then he simply didn’t have time for it. Enjoying life was something you did later – when you retired. After you’ve made your money. Well, now he is retired.
And now he is finally starting to have an appreciation for the small things in life like that, but the problem is that he now has macular degeneration so he is almost completely blind.
Also, he is almost completely deaf. A genetic defect that has worsened over the years to the point that hearing aids only have very limited value to him. So, now that his mind is at the point to allow him to pay attention to the world around him, he is deaf and blind and can't see it, or hear it.

Isn’t it ironic that his attitude throughout his life isolated him from life itself, until finally, once he was old enough to realize he should be paying attention to the world around him, nature itself isolates him from it. What rich irony. A lesson from the universe to him. And me. It pays to learn from the mistakes of others. After all, we don’t have enough time to make all the mistakes ourselves.

And then I think about the past Christmases I’ve had. I think about last year when my parents were here visiting and we were selling our house and rushing around trying to find a new house all in Christmas week. It was a hectic rush such that we missed a lot of the actual Christmas happenings. Although I did get a chance to give my daughter that copy of the book I wrote for her. I had it printed and bound and put it in a special hand-carved wooden box. She looked at it and thanked me. But she is at a difficult age. She tries to be alone and not need her parents. So I don’t know if she ever bothered to read it. But it is there for her. If she ever decides to open it and see what I’ve written for her.

I think about the Christmas of year before when there such a big fight with my wife I just had to leave and go for a walk in the sun and fresh air to balance myself out. So much poison in the air at home, I had to detox myself. A walk alone in the quiet and the fresh air helps with that, I find. Ahh past Christmases. I think about the good ones and the bad ones.

And also I think about who I am. Am I a good person? Do I care enough about other people? Do I do any good in my life? Is there anybody anywhere in this world any better for having me touch their life in some way? I'd like to hope so, but I doubt it.
I think maybe I should be doing something more useful with my days other than simply making a living and paying the bills. Maybe I should be doing something along the lines of what the spiritualist Betty Robinson said in that reading she did for me a few years ago. That I was sent here to do something important, but I haven’t done it. That I’ve been wasting my life so far. That I should be somewhere else doing something else better. Something important. Something that helps a large number of people. But what? That is the question. What do I have the talent for? What do I have the energy and strength for?

I am playing guitar at the Beanstock outdoor concert in March, and I am donating the proceeds to a charity for burned children. I was badly burned as a child and spent an entire summer in the burn ward at the hospital, so I know what it's like for them. I have no scars left from it anymore, but it took years for the scar and the nightmares to go away. Anyway, that's not much of a contribution to others. I think maybe I'm supposed to be doing something bigger and more. Of course, perhaps this is just a step on that path. Maybe the opportunity to do something more may present itself later.

And all this is part of what I think about as I stand at the balcony and stare at the beautiful purple bow on the Christmas tree. Suddenly, I shake my head back to find the moment, collect my presence of mind and awareness of my surroundings again, and then continue on my way home...

Val

Getting Beyond the Beginning

2004-12-19T23:09:00.000-05:00

I've been reading this a while.
Thinking about what to say. You accept without question that your parents values when raising you were right. You still do.
I've nothing to say about my parents: I didn't know them when I was growing up under their roof because they were intimately distant -- busy being Mom and Dad. Years later there was no chance without major intervention I would ever get to know them. Patterns are forged by 4 -- and I knew by then my life was not what anyone else seemed to be living. I didn't know why -- but I knew I was different, and I was shown over and over how unimportant my existence was.
They were not interested in my stuff. Not even to ridicule: I would say something and it would lie there ignored until someone else changed the subject.
I was the weird intellectual who didn't make sense to them at all...
BUT
they left me to my own pursuits and never DIScouraged me from anything I felt like putting my mind to. I think, and I could be wrong -- they hoped I'd grow out of it. make my own adjustments. I seemed so smart...
and of course -- I was a girl. Being smart, or training intelligence in girls was not such a high priority in working class people -- almost but not quite, embarrassing.
They both had some appreciation for words and ideas and I *suppose* wondered how the hell *they* produced an egghead --
but I was never belittled for being what I was.
I didn't see it in that light, before.
They thought I was smart and... well -- nothing that needed attention. They had their hands full with squeaky wheels that needed constant attention: living at the poverty level with 6 kids, and the complications that ensued with the birth of my younger sister.
She was born with a congenital defect called Arthrogryposis on the lower half of her body.
Forgive me if I don't go into details about her -- but I will tell you out of the 6 of us, she's the most normal person: and considering she's a landlocked mermaid in a wheelchair -- applying the term "normal" doesn't seem right, does it? But she is: she's been married nearly 14 years, has two lovely children, owns property, graduated from college, has always had numerous friends and people happy to help out, just to be around her regal normality.
She's four years younger than I am -- and that means the older siblings were all teens or preteens when she arrived. 16, 15, 14, and 11.
I spent the next 10 years of my life when not home or (finally in school) alone with a library book in the back seat riding to or from medical appointments or visitations to hospitals, where I sat in the waiting room: keeping to myself, or if I was very lucky reading aloud to other kids. Not often -- I wouldn't have wanted to get caught talking to strangers: not that there was much risk of that happening, since I knew I was beneath the notice of anyone -- I wasn't sick, or malformed, or pretty.
I was invisible.
But hey -- I'm pretty sure I was never abandoned...
huh. I was so well trained: kept my awareness sharp of /for the clock; when to expect family members at the desk, knew to get my coat and collect my books and put myself in the car.
I never had the sense of worth to "cause trouble".

I've been thinking about the comment you posted...

Val -- I would pick my childhood over yours to live through again -- I would jump happily into my wretched circumstances if I were given the choice between yours and mine.
Your parents make a detention camp sound like Disneyland.
But then, their own childhoods were positively Dickensian, so I suppose yours was a huge improvement!
I can't imagine anything more important than being able to communicate through music. To speak beyond words is a gift.
Sadly, this side of heaven it's seen as a trivial thing.

Val wrote:
When I was young enough to still be living at home, most of
the time my parents were embarrassed of me because I spent most of my time
practicing guitar and reading and I was headed toward becoming a musician
...

click HERE to read the rest of this commentary,
fourth comment down on "Artistic Authority"

from there to here

2004-12-16T02:51:00.000-05:00

it's a new development for me to have the input of others on my poetry -- since what I mostly have gotten in my life is either a concerned, "Ahhh, ever thought of therapy?" or, "Wow -- yeah, that sure is a poem all right." (readers of the blog who have been kind enough to give me some meatier feedback are excluded...

and all are encouraged to delve in if they feel moved to do so. hehe-heh.)

the blog thread on this poem is HERE, along with an over all ev-ness blog entry on poets --

the Poetry X forum thread is 7 x 17.

this is the poem in it's current state:

magic grants no home

Ulysses too went down:
his ship leaving
the witch shorebound.

My Captain Mine,
no longer. Bittersweet knowing,
and still sought shelter.

Were it to, he'd walk with me alone;
were magic home he'd be my twin,
this distance would be gone.

it's had an interesting -- for me, very different journey.

comments?

ev.

Re: [Ej-l] "Uncle" Park's [former] Les Paul.

2004-12-15T15:01:00.000-05:00

Chaarlie asked:
"Uncle Park! Uncle Park!
Would you puleeeeze tell us the story of how your enchanted Les Paul changed hands? Pleeze? Pretty pleeze? With sugar on it?!"

Park replied:
No big thing. I bought it and sold it a few years later. It is not something I like to think about considering what they are worth now.
It is the same one EJ is playing on the Magnets video.

Awww. Not much of a story teller, are you Park?

Once upon a time not as long ago as sometimes, there lived a magical boy named EJ who could make guitars and other things with strings come to life.

Part of this was a gift he inherited from his family, but part of it was studying and applying himself to the Magical Arts Musicom to the exclusion of everything else. This combination of natural affinity and practicing was very rare and though there were many other Practitioners of Musicom none were quite the same as Young EJ even though he assumed most had to be.

Now it is a not well known fact outside of the Serious Magical Practitioner's Guild (the SMPG) that inanimate objects once brought to life rarely make good house guests -- the reasons being few have brains of their own, and fewer still, with the advent of mass production hold a spark of their creator's soul; so usually if some inanimate object finds itself granted the ability to speak it will babble on about nothing of consequence, and loudly, until it's source of magic dries up: and what sort of conversation would you expect from an appliance or pair of salt and pepper shakers anyway?

However, EJ's magic was quite specific and exclusively concerned itself with getting the most range and tone from musical instruments, hence his nickname in the SMPG, "The Tone Ranger." ("Hi-ho Silver Lining".)

Guitars and Pianos of a certain vintage that had been around the block once or twice and touched by lesser magics did their armless and legless best to cross the path of this magical boy, using whatever means of persuasion their wood and wires could construct to get close to the touch of EJ and *become more* by his magic.

This, you may well imagine, led to some very strange conversations and loans of instruments throughout the network of friends the Young Mage belonged to.
People who liked the music EJ created would find themselves buying guitars instead of dinner and dropping round the back porch to have EJ "check out this cool guitar I found". (If you think that's bad, spare a moment's sympathy for the Piano aficionados.)

There was one drawback to lending a guitar to EJ: the longer he played it, the more attached the instrument became to him; and the more possessive and jealous the guitars got, the less musical they became (as I am sure you all understand music is a pure thing that can be spoiled by negativity, ego, and general psychotic behavior).

Since the guitars all wanted their time with EJ they kept their petty bickering amongst themselves and never told him what went on when he turned out the lights. Other people heard the grumbling and a few outright cat fights (yes, between the Hatfields and McCoys of the guitar world, Fender and Gibson) but dismissed it as good take out and bad beer rumblings.

Eventually EJ would return a guitar to someone, and although people were glad to have their property returned, the more sensitive folks would be surprised by the out of sorts "weirdness" they would feel when they picked up the guitar, not to mention there was a pronounced "sulky" sound whenever they attempted to play the thing.

Most of these loaners didn't stay long in the homes of their rightful owners upon their return.

You don't want to know about the poor schlemiel who boosted a cache of guitars from the Mage's apartment: YOU try fencing a load of hot guitars screaming and carrying on like St Ursula's 10,000 martyred virgins and see if all the ill gained money in the world can pay for that level of intensive therapy!

So let that be a warning to you kiddies: keep your guitars and pianos locked up when EJ comes to town, you never know but one of 'em will run off with the Maestro, eh?

Auntie
ev.

(man, I do have too much time on my hands, don't I?)

Artistic Authority

2004-12-15T13:04:00.000-05:00

All this talk of poetry and having the poet ask for help from other poets has me thinking.

There is a trade off when the artist asks for help from another.
Normally, when we, 'the audience', pick up a book and read it, or read a poem, or listen to a song, experience a painting, or a sculpture, etc., we usually have a sense of faith in the artist that what was intended to be there is there.
Just like when we get off the elevator on the 10th floor of an office building, we have unconsciously made an underlying assumption that the engineers and architects knew what they were doing when they designed the tensile strength and configuration of the steel girders for the building and that the floor is not going to collapse when you step onto it. We make these assumptions of simple faith everyday. We make many assumptions about the world around us.

We make similar assumptions of faith with our art as well.
We may like the piece, or not like the piece, but, unless we are a professional critic, most of us simply assume that it is what it is. It is complete. And what the artist intended.
We don't take it upon ourselves to suggest that the chords to "Stairway to Heaven" are wrong.
We don't think the melody to 'Silent Night" needs work. Or that "The Last Supper" should have had one less disciple at the table.
As such, we imbue these pieces with a certain sense of what I will call, 'Artistic Authority'.
They speak with an authority of what they should be. Of how they should exist in the world.
When we buy a new CD and listen to it, we usually accept it as easily as we accept the classics in that we assume that the songs are complete and correct, and as the muse instructed the artist to create.

So when an artist asks for help, it changes the situation - at least for that person, doesn't it?
For THAT person, they now have a say in what the chord progression is. Cliffs of Dover might have less impact on you if you had a deal of say in the exact melody. It would lose it's authority - it's right to exist as it is now. Things are changed for the person that gets to suggest the exact tint for the leaves on those trees, the exact wording of this Haiku. When they get to determine the plot twist in the movie at that crucial point.

No one doubts the fact that the Empire was allowed to blow up the planet Alderan in Star Wars. That film has the authority to simply state that that is what happened, and we take it at face value and trust that it makes sense in the grand design of events that are about to transpire.

But if you are given say over things, all that evaporates. If you determine that Princess Leia convinced Darth Vader to let them live, then suddenly everything is up for grabs. For you, at least, the story has lost it's artistic authority, and has simply become a workpiece that you toiled over. To a degree, the magic is lost. Your ability to change the story makes the story meaningless in a sense.
It takes away from the sense of 'authority' of the piece. The piece of art is now no longer a fixed piece of the panorama of the universe around that person. Once it is open to change by that person it becomes something different. Something less, I should say.

It has lost it's 'authority'. On the other hand, that person has gained some power. They can change something they couldn't change before. So the authority of the work is diminished, but the authority of the person is enhanced. And that is the tradeoff.

So it becomes a bit of a quandary for the artist to ask for help, doesn't it?

The tradeoff for the artist there is that they must de-mystify the work for that person in exchange for help that may enhance the mystery of the piece for others. So the tradeoff is expanded.

In asking for help, you lose a fan, but gain an artistic aide. If you never ask for help or advice or feedback, you maintain the mystery for all others, but your impact is limited to only your own abilities, and senses. You are working in a vacuum. If your ego allows you to take criticism, advice or direction at all, you must decide whose experience you wish to ruin in exchange for their advice and input. An interesting choice.

As with all decisions, the more informed the better.

Another aspect to this is the concept of 'quality' in art. Art is very subjective. Taste is always personal and therefore indefensible. However not all 'art' is the highest of quality. People start at a low level of skill and then evolve to higher levels of skill as they learn new things. So their art improves. In my own case, my later songs are better than my earlier ones, because I know what I'm doing a little more now than I did when I started writing and recording 27 years ago. Each album is better than the ones before it. To some degree, even each song is usually a little better than the last.

So add this element into the mix and now we have a case where Artistic Authority is at risk if the quality is not high enough to provide a compelling suspension of disbelief for the audience.

In most cases, an artist is trying to convey a message to the audience. A story, a lesson, a feeling, a mood, a whatever. To do this, they must create an environment and a set of triggers to catch the audience's attention and engage their emotions. They must set a mood. They must touch on archetypes and symbols, the similar experiences, and familiar points of the world that will trigger the emotional context that they are trying to build for the audience.
If their mastery of their art is insufficient to the task, then they will fail. The audience will experience nothing the artist has intended. They will simply get caught up in the form of the portrayal and lose the content.

The form, if rendered correctly, should disappear in the mind, as the content of the underlying message is revealed. To me, that is 'quality' in art.

Asking for help until we get to that point probably makes sense. We need to build the skills to be able to create that scenario for the audience. So that also becomes part of the decision process for the artist.
1) Do I need help with this piece?
2) Who can give me the help I need?
3) Is it worth destroying the magic and meaning of the piece for that person by including them in the artistic direction of it?

To me, these are the questions and trade-offs of artistic authority.

At least that's my feeling on it. What are yours?

Val

Poets...

2004-12-13T14:31:00.000-05:00

There's a reason why people avoid poetry.
There is just so much really AWFUL poetry out there. Mine is mediocre with occasional flashes of "pretty good" I freely admit that: I keep doing it because I live for those "pretty good" moments -- it is its own reward.
lol. And is it any wonder *successful* poets have such a high suicide rate?
I believe poetry should at least attempt to express an emotional connection to whatever the words are describing.
you know:

start with a point
draw lines (with words)
to scribe your focus:
show me what you
need. Want. Have to.
Do it from Love --
or not at all.

I know there are all kinds of poetic forms that deserve to be appreciated. I try to appreciate them. Really!
but I an annoyed beyond good manners when I have to deal with sophisticated word plays that mean nothing.
over on the poetry X board we have a new arrival who thinks s/he is "an artist".
s/he writes Soundscape Poetry. although s/he may not have consciously known that is what s/he was doing, as I thought of the term while I was writing the critique:
"if what you are intending with your words is to make a soundscape of syllable rhythm where the meaning is be-bop -- you do succeed. "
**sigh**.

This was the first part of what I wrote:
"writing poetry is more than exercising your knack for obscurity.
Just because no one understands you doesn't make you an artist.
when poetry works, there is a shared essence, a connection, a flow: there is something to hold the mind of the reader in the moment of the poem.
You have nothing to say, but you insist on saying it.
show me something meaningful --
this is embarrassing; like being expected to watch you masturbate and give pointers on technique.
which means, sure it's good for you -- but what does it do for me?
There is a possibility I am way off base and you are a genius beyond my appreciation...
naaaah. "

yeah. I was politely told I was being rude:

"Just a quick point. Stick to the poem and not the author. Be curtious (sic) and helpful, not demeaning." (nice guy, and a very helpful and generous writer himself.)
I replied:
I have no problem with harsh crit directed at my work or at me -- if I personally come across as a braying ass, do tell me. I will attempted to be more civilized, or at worst further amuse and mystify by shoving my foot farther into my mouth.
I just picked this one out of the 8 or so "p0e_it" posted and yes, I realize I was harsh and yes, I realize I was personal; but I do stand by what I had to say. I find these poems deliberately obtuse and as such, glaringly amateurish. I question the writer's intent and truly wonder what the point is to any of them.
I would like to see a penchant for clever word play used to mean something.
However, it is only my opinion.
On the other hand -- just ignoring people who mess on the carpet is rude. We are not talking pets here.

since I don't have permission from the poet, I don't know how long this will stay here; but this is the poem I responded to:

Stained & Sained cocktail sauce sea

It's cocktail sauce.

It maybe ketchup.

It's raw,

The eye lost.

It's shrimp.

It's limp.

The sea of wet earth.

Flowing over the mountain.

Where I surf.

Imagining weather seamen

Where I think.

Where I don't sink.
Hopefully.
~

just imagine -- or go read for yourself -- 8 or ten of those sorts of poems just tossed up and asked for response.

I was really pleased with the attention given to something I recently posted on the board: this is the sort of thing I am really looking for -- and I think it illustrates the sort of good interaction you CAN get from like minded (and smarter) people on the Internet.

this was what I posted:

7x17

Tears bleed into silence,
distances listen alone;
you used to feel me.

Slow reply coming:
if I watch or if I don't
does it matter now?

Though never married
we are wed through bliss filled words;
the waves tell me so.

Walk alone with me
like you used to dear heart;
be my twin again...

but no. No longer
mine; and so bittersweet is
the fruit of knowing.

My good man goes down
with the ship he Captains and
leaves his wife shorebound.

Ulysses did not
stay with his witch wife either
magic grants no home.
~
(the title just means 7 Haiku-esque verses)

this was someone taking the time to actually look at it:

Just a couple thoughts:

7x17

I'd change the title, since it has no meaning really for the poem as a whole and gives no real indication of what is being attempted in the piece.

Tears bleed into silence,
distances listen alone;
you used to feel me.

I don't think the first line works well. I find these merging of sense images to be problematic since I don't see how it is possible for a tear to "bleed into silence". The third line is cliche. Also, as far as a haiku goes, your syllable count is off in line one (I noticed this elsewhere, too). Though strict syllable count isn't always a requirement of the E haiku, this poem seems to go for it pretty strictly. Maybe touch this up?

Slow reply coming:
if I watch or if I don't
does it matter now?

Watch what?

Though never married
we are wed through bliss filled words;
the waves tell me so.

Where are the waves coming from? Is this related to the tears of L1, or a new reference to something out of nowhere?

Walk alone with me
like you used to dear heart;
be my twin again...

second line is hurtfully cliched.

but no. No longer
mine; and so bittersweet is
the fruit of knowing.

I like the "so bittersweet is/ the fruit of knowing" part, but I feel like I've read this before. Can't quite place it now though.

My good man goes down
with the ship he Captains and
leaves his wife shorebound.

"captains", not "Captains"
Who is the good man here?

Ulysses did not
stay with his witch wife either
magic grants no home.

Punctuation would help in some places, like here in the final stanza.

and here was the final results (hope my green italics are legible):

I'd change the title, since it has no meaning really for the poem as a whole and gives no real indication of what is being attempted in the piece.
true. what about "Widow's Walk"? I want to have an over all sense of a woman on a widow's walk (it is a high porch on a seaman's home with a rail facing out towards sea -- sort of a landlubber's "crows nest"). The initial feeling that sat me down to write it was that interminable "hanging feeling" where you wait for (more) bad news.

Tears bleed into silence,
distances listen alone;
you used to feel me.

I don't think the first line works well. I find these merging of sense images to be problematic since I don't see how it is possible for a tear to "bleed into silence". The third line is cliche. Also, as far as a haiku goes, your syllable count is off in line one (I noticed this elsewhere, too). Though strict syllable count isn't always a requirement of the E haiku, this poem seems to go for it pretty strictly. Maybe touch this up?

quelled by your silence,
distances listen alone:
two once heard as one.
on the other hand, I can cut it completely if I use Widow's Walk as the title, you think?

Slow reply coming:
if I watch or if I don't
does it matter now?

Watch what?
watching / waiting for the reply... I should change the colon to a semi colon.

Though never married
we are wed through bliss filled words;
the waves tell me so.

Where are the waves coming from? Is this related to the tears of L1, or a new reference to something out of nowhere?
good point. I got ahead of myself and didn't really build the scene I was seeing so that the reader sees it too. Also, the waves are not necessarily water, but waves of emotion / empathy the two used to share, but the metaphors are all around the distances between two strong personalities separated by both the physical distance and the emotional...water under the bridge. There's a reason cliches exist, sorry.

Walk alone with me
like you used to dear heart;
be my twin again...
second line is hurtfully cliched.
the line is really a continuation of the first -- "walk alone with me like you used to..." and yep -- the count is off here, too.
how about:

walk alone with me
like you used to, my Captain;
be my twin again...

but no. No longer
mine; and so bittersweet is
the fruit of knowing.
I like the "so bittersweet is/ the fruit of knowing" part, but I feel like I've read this before. Can't quite place it now though.
"...so bittersweet is / the fruit of knowing" is a biblical reference, Knowledge the (cough) perennial bittersweet fruit.

My good man goes down
with the ship he Captains and
leaves his wife shorebound.

"captains", not "Captains"
Who is the good man here?
the dear heart who's reply is coming. I think by referencing my Captain earlier, this gets fixed? and yes, a Captain captains a ship.

Ulysses did not
stay with his witch wife either
magic grants no home.
Punctuation would help in some places, like here in the final stanza

I think I've fixed the meter: I am usually all for stanzas, but now I think I don't want them for this.

Widow's Walk

Slow reply coming;
if I watch or if I don't
does it matter now?
Though never married
we are wed through bliss-filled words;
the waves tell me so.
Walk alone with me
like you used to, my Captain;
be my twin again...
but no. No longer
mine; and so bittersweet is
the fruit of knowing.
My good man goes down
with the ship he captains and
leaves his wife shorebound.
Ulysses did not
stay with his witch wife either:
magic grants no home.
~

or better this way:

Widow's Walk

Slow reply coming;
if I watch or if I don't
does it matter now?

Though never married
we are wed through bliss-filled words;
the waves tell me so.

Walk alone with me
like you used to, my Captain;
be my twin again...

but no. No longer
mine; and so bittersweet is
the fruit of knowing.

My good man goes down
with the ship he captains and
leaves his wife shorebound.

Ulysses did not
stay with his witch wife either:
magic grants no home.
~

Thank you Steve; very helpful and gracious.

ev.

Greensleeves

2004-12-13T13:44:00.000-05:00

Its melody has been adapted into a Christmas carol -- it's been recorded by most everyone, but I wasn't aware of all the verses to the darn thing.
who knew it was a grocery list of complaints?
Supposedly it was written / composed or commissioned by Henry VIII.
huh. Somehow I don't see him as the long suffering, patient lover type of guy.
maybe my history is faulty.

Greensleeves

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously.
For I have loved you well and long,
Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady Greensleeves.

Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity.

I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.

If you intend thus to disdain,
It does the more enrapture me,
And even so, I still remain
A lover in captivity.

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Well, I will pray to God on high,
that thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.

Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,
To God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.
~

The Most Wonderful Time of The Year!

2004-12-10T15:35:00.000-05:00

When did the annual Christmas Party become the Non-denominational all inclusive no symbols of any religious affiliation and No Santa Claus but hey we'll still have fun! obligatory get together?
What really ticks me off about the "Correctness" of Holiday Inclusion is the ridiculous lengths people go to in some utterly misguided effort to please everyone BY NOT OFFENDING ANYBODY.
In the end, we are left with a high stress mandatory participation meaningless affair that leaves people feeling more isolated and sad than had they attended "A Christmas party".
It is hypocritical codswallop for Fundamentalists of either Side to backlash Holidays for being "too commercial" -- essentially pulling a Grinch just because "it has gotten away from the true meaning of Christmas / Yule."
There are threads here and there on various boards pointing up the Stress Stroke Zone of co-ordinating some sort of get together at this time of year that everyone will be comfortable at -- forget the pathetic dim hope of anyone actually enjoying the occasion.
You know what? STOP IT. I mean it.
You do not have to set a table and throw a party that includes EVERYONE and everything that ever existed since recorded history. If you really really want to throw a Pan-dimensional Happy Everything, then by all means knock yourself out, but Baybee -- Do It Big, and don't forget the Dischordians! If you really want to attend and/or hold a cross cultural Holiday Extravaganza, that is quite another thing. (I'll pass thanks -- I don't swing that way, as I rather do like the idea of Something Meaningful At This Time Of Year. )
However....
I would be happy and honored to be included in your personal cherished traditions of celebrating the holidays you grew up with.
Don't worry about offending ME -- I am a grown up ADULT who respects other people's ways with the understanding they will respect mine, so when I am invited into someone's home or asked to attend someone's gathering, I am a "Good Guest" and Do As I See Others Doing. Being pretty quick on the uptake, if I don't know the words I can at least smile (appropriately) and pay attention.
Obviously, one does not invite an avowed Chassidim to a pig roast, Nor is it respectful of anyone to invite Vegans to a Buffalo Hunt, capeicé? A little Common Sense goes a long way in the regard of appropriate invitations being sent, as well as whether or not one accepts the invitation.
Since I have decided to accept your gracious invitation, I will be attending Unconditionally. I have been Asked To Come SHARE With You: This does not grant me the right to re-write / over-ride Your Plans. Really. Since when did being the perfect Hostess become this exercise in Masochism of trying to please the implacable? Invite people you want to share with and if you are feeling charitable, invite a few people you'd like to get to know better. Or don't.
You know what? If "Aunt Phoebe" is a pain in the ass and brings everybody down so that no one wants to be there -- it is past the time to have a good talking to Aunt Phoebe, or arrange for her to have other plans. Most likely she has always been a crank and either no one has talked to her about it; or she maliciously enjoys being a killjoy. She is not a Good Guest, and she needs to know.
And it is your responsibility to talk to her. As Hostess you do want to bring together people who will appreciate and enjoy the occasion, right? You know, that whole underlaying "meaningful" part of having the fete. You can not entrust messages and difficult duties to other people. This is where the stress starts taking form and strength. Can't bring yourself to do it?
You're a whimp, and your parties are a drag because you lack the steel to call the shots. (Just borrowing some uber-testosterone advice giving tactics from Dr. Phil...or possibly Dr. Laura.)
It is the burden of Love to Make it Loving. (Have you met Santa?....)
This is a time to share what is meaningful to you, to instill memories in the foundation of your family.
The true meaning of this time of year is FAMILY.
That includes the people you have met along the way
who love you and like you --
even though they really really know you --
Anyway!
No one is offended when the offer comes from a loving heart.

As for Santa Claus...
(see next post...)

Loving thoughts,
ev.

Santa baby...

2004-12-10T15:20:00.000-05:00

Santa Claus is one of the traditions of the Christmas season.Although there are variations in other cultures, and he is supposedly descendant of an Ancient Bishop "Saint Nicholas", and he may have some passing familiarity with Per Noel, Father Christmas, or Befana in drag -- Santa Claus the icon in the red suit with the beard, sleigh, reindeer, and naughty-or-nice list of deserving children: This guy is a USAmerican creation.
Yes he is a Patriarchal Big Daddy Touchstone -- who transcends secular AND sacred boundaries.Get over it.
Santa is O.K, thumbs up and the best part of the folderol surrounding this amalgamation celebratory time of year.
If you think Christmas is an exclusively solemn occasion in honor of the Christ Child's birth and that is the "true meaning" of this seasonal holiday -- bad news hon. The Christian Church appropriated the Winter Festivals all the cheeky Pagans had been celebrating since time immemorial.
Jesus Christ was born around tax time -- check your bible.
However -- in choosing to spruce up the meaning of the holiday with the birth of a child / savior, the Church Elders chose the right time of year and the right level of merry making to white wash.
And Santa fits in perfectly, as well.
Santa represents the spirit of giving.
HE is not obligated to do what he does, regardless of the dire warnings from parents that "Santa is watching you, so you better be good or ..."
Shame on the first twisted kruller of an adult to come up with that proviso, effective as it can be.
Santa is Love.
Big Fat Jolly Politically Incorrect L-O-V-E.
Santa is wishes come true, Santa is Childhood Magic; whimsy and collective consciousness archetypical benevolence....
and Santa IS Adult Faith.
Doesn't matter what religious affiliation you carry.
When you believe in Santa Claus, you believe in The Good That Is Possible Between All People.
You Believe in Kindness.
You KNOW the meaning of it is Better to Give Than to Receive.I hope that in all this Holiday Hurry you will have a Santa moment in your life that will lift you up with the Joy of Possibilities.
Believe in the Possibilities that seem Utterly Impossible.
Laugh.
Do you get the "ho ho ho"?
Go on, try it.
feel it.
Laugh with joy in your heart that you are alive and this IS a Wondrous, Amazing time of the year where you are "allowed" to Love Everyone -- and that is it's own reward.
Santa means more to me, now, than I could have possibly understood when I was just a child on the receiving end of his journey through the timeless night.
it means more now...because...I...get...to...BE...
Santa.
And if you have Love in your heart, so do you.

And that my friends -- is what we celebrate: by whatever name, with whatever props; masks and sartorial splendors.
Ho ho ho!!!
Yes, I love you!
Happy, Happy Everything!

your
ev.

Virtuosities (other than)...

2004-12-10T02:09:00.000-05:00

yeah, I had a 19th century sort of day, myself.
Schubert, Mendelssohn, Chopin... (and now it's Christmas muuusic...Just put in the soundtrack to "A Charlie Brown Christmas". Vince Guaraldi, forever. *sigh*)
Those 19th century Romantics were all slightly insane, you know. Their work is luscious, sensual, uplifting -- and they were nutty as Fruitcakes, every blesséd one of em.
But then, drugs were legal and unregulated in the 19th century, right? lol.

Are you mostly a piano aficionado K? This discussion of music can be larger than Eric Johnson and Chopin and Val, tho that's not bad company at all. *-)
Another disc that went with me to the Doctor's office today was Cyprien Katsaris' recording of the Beethoven / Liszt's 6th. Have you heard it? Talk about Virtuosos. I've yet to hear his compositions -- but his solo piano interpretation of the Liszt piano reduction (HA!) of the Beethoven symphonies are -- incandescent, stunning, jaw dropping. Anyone who plays a piano with such depth of feeling, passion -- INTENSITY -- could find himself sued for paternity.
so that's where Baby Grands come from. =)
All cleverness aside, this Boy makes the Earth Move. I haven't heard Glenn Gould's versions of the 5th and 6th (and I'd love to!) but I've devoured CK's performances -- (5th, 6th, and 7th) and I would jump through multiple hoops of fire to attend a concert of his. (The whole cycle is available on Amazon.com for just under 100 bucks -- wish I had it. On the Amazon page you can sample each symphony -- maybe you can: I have no idea how I'd survive just a taste of each one: this is stuff you play over and over and over.)
I suspect every classical fan has their favorite orchestral version of the Beethoven symphonies (for me I am sorta a purist -- Toscanini ROCKS, Baybee -- who's yer Maestro, spell it A-R-T-U-R-O uh huh uh huh!) and it pays off in sheer eyebrows-into-orbit suspension of disbelief to know the works and THEN hear Katsaris redefine virtuosity.
Again -- here is someone so shockingly magnificent at what can possibly be done on an instrument -- I wonder if this is the first time you have ever heard of him? (When it's almost impossible to find bio info on the web in English, you gotta figure....)
There is a short story I wish I could find -- I think it's by Asimov (since it has a Robot as a main character) about a robot who is a virtuoso pianist -- and who is cognizant that it is utterly impossible (for "him") to be one: a machine can reproduce sound perfectly each time -- and that is not virtuosity.
Words take on layers of flavors. Websters defines virtuoso as an experimenter or investigator esp. in the arts and sciences. Virtu is a love of or taste for curios or objets d'art; virtuosity ~ 1: a taste for or interest in virtu 2: great technical skill (as in the practice of a fine art): while virtue itself is given the meaning of strength, manliness, morality, courage -- and especially in a woman -- chastity.
The piano is an implacatable, devouring beast; it takes a virtuous soul indeed to coax beauty from the sounds of hammers hitting wires, conjuring and casting spells through the skills honed from the uncounted and ultimately immaterial hours of dancing digits in the teeth of a monster.
Beast with no heart. Monster with no soul --
but for the virtuosos who strike the devils bargain
and extend their own into it.

Yeah, I kind of have a thing for pianna playing peeps...
so who are your favorite Artists?...
and what genres do they defy..?

=)
ev.

To Do This You Got To Know How.

2004-12-08T01:55:00.000-05:00

That is the title of an album of String Ragtime compilations from the 30s released on Blue Goose, and it comes to mind as I think of your excellent questions regarding Eric Johnson:

"I wonder (too) what motivates him to create his music and do you think he realizes how good he is?"

I'd think a complex answer would be forthcoming to the first part -- if anyone were allowed to ask -- gol -- if anyone had the balls to ask! lol. That is a question that could trap a creative mind in self examination -- which is great if there are blocks and stops that need to be addressed -- and a therapist standing by with a safety net and a timer to call a halt to the session.
So it is up to us -- remote as we are from the source, but in contact with the fruits of Eric's labors to speculate and find our own answers.
Motivations. And personal assessment of his talents... well for that one, you can look it up. As I recall he seems to think there is always room for improvement in himself, while he is clearly enthusiastically awed and humbled by other players talents. That's not a pious put on from a closet egomaniac: he is consistently humble and striving to better himself at every turn -- which, when one is as remarkably talented an artist as Eric IS... is pretty remarkable in itself; try reading the list interviews and you'll see what I mean about consistent: on the ericjohnson.com website under "Library" are the series of interviews Park's conducted taking questions from list members and asking Eric directly.
There's a lot of fascinating information to be had: anyone with the inclination can open these files up and read a transcribed conversation between two people who've known each other 30 years working off a list of questions asked by people who really want to know this stuff. Unlike magazine articles which are prima forma created for commercial gain (This is not a bad thing -- the magazine sells, the artist promotes awareness of his work and project, the fans find out cool stuff) there is a casual expansiveness in the list interviews and a feeling that this wasn't washed through a half dozen editors and image consultants and who-all -- not to mention the usual necessity of going over for the quadrillionth time Who He Is And What He's Done Up To This Point, which in the print media can take up a good half of the columns before you get to the new bits.
Just to say -- there is an appreciable difference that makes it worthwhile to take the time to read those list interviews.
Yes, it is Tech Geek Heaven.
As you know -- there are mostly guys who play guitar asking questions about getting the sounds *just so* and talking about equipment rigs who make up the core of the vocal contingent of the list. I can think of five (ej-list) women who play guitar who (forgive me) are nowhere near the geek speak levels of gear-aware as any random male guitar-zan to walk into the room.
This always cracks me up. It goes back to our common / assumed childhood divisions of toys and what we got out of them.
Motivations.
Girls were given dolls to nurture, embracing Mommy roles to play. Not all girls are into that -- but it is stereotypical.
Boys are given equipment to encourage them to compete and to form teams of co-operative competition.
Boys are told to be problem solvers and given tools to play with.
Girls are taught to role play to ensure future domestic bliss.I know all of this is changing -- parenting has morphed into seeing children of both sexes as people with the potential to be *everything* -- and so parents expose Madison and Dakota, Apple and Orange to all the possibilities of life's rich banquet of service and fulfillment: working towards leveling the school yard playing field.Now, little girls still play with dolls... and also soccer balls: and little boys still play with tools and... action figures.
Personally I think about the differences between the sexes on the most basic level OF sex: Women are the inner space Universe.
Men are always thrusting forward, outward from themselves into the unknown.
Sometimes it seems to me most men and women only get along at all because those two parts fit together in such a satisfactory manner.
Motivations.
That is pretty generic and sexist. Bad ev.
Especially since I think true artists are hermaphrodites.
oh, really bad ev! lol.
I can imagine the cocksmen of rock 'n' roll getting their scanties in a twist over some implied questioning of their he man hirsute Machismo.
There is a tendency nowadays to not really understand all the words we casually lob around.
(I am an etymologist at heart.)
Hermaphrodite is used to mean androgynous, which in turn seems to mean neither one sex nor the other... in a sense that it is a lack of a dominating element, a derogatory evaluation.
"Phil, with that long hair, you look just like a girl."
"Terry, you really ought to pluck your eyebrows, you look just like a guy."
(heaven help 'em if they're actually Phyllis and Terrence.)
According to the myth: Hermaphroditus was the son of Hermes and Aphrodite; born Atlantiades, he was a young man so beautifully formed and irresistible a love sick nymph named Salmacis jumped him one day and prayed to the gods that they be united forever: and in typically literal (perverse) godly fashion, the two individual beings were fused into one -- sharing physical male and female attributes -- which is decidely NOT "neither-nor."
I love a good old Jungian examination of archetype -- but doesn't everyone?..
Hermaphroditus. His parents were Hermes, the god intellect, and Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty.
Like that wasn't enough.
but on the cusp of awareness (the myth states that Atlantiades was an Innocent and that is why he spurned Salmacis' advances so that she needed to get forceful) he is bonded for eternity with a female who, obviously is VERY aware of What Is What and Where It All Fits Together.
IMHO this is what delineates a true Artist from a "mere" craftsman (or worse an Artiste /poseur.) There is to the Artist a sensual aspect that defies a categorical "this OR that" (sexual) expression. In a male artist, beyond the expected masculine dimensions of biology there is a marked sensitivity, delicacy of touch, spacial awareness, emotional accessibility -- call it the unexpected yin quality -- to his work; in a female artist, there is a corresponding unexpected yang quality. In reality -- the Artist is likely one of the most "whole" individuals a person will ever encounter.
This is how I think of EJ's work.
Throughout the list interviews there are threads of what and why Eric does what he does.
First -- his parents loved music and he was exposed to this love of music when he was a child, was encouraged to share the joy of music with them.
Second -- let's face it -- what the hell else can he do? He mentions trying work as a carpenter (which lasted a matter of days) and then the only other "real" job he held was... working in a music store. Granted he certainly is a perseverant, disciplined man who prefers to let his work speak for him; which in no way indicates a lack of intelligence or conversation! lol. (awww, I've talked to people who've talked to him. =)) On the other hand, maybe all along he's been saving up to be able to spend his leisure years studying Architecture. Or Astronomy. (two "outside interests" mentioned in list interviews.) I really do wonder what else he might have done or may yet turn his hands to. Since Eric is such a bright spark in my mind I can't imagine anything that comes from his involvement being less that extraordinary. (heh. Typical EJ fan thinking: No pressure there, huh?)
And Third (though this may be 2 1/2, as it's a purely speculative bit on my part): there is a Sufi dictum that says, "To hone one's talents is to polish the mirror of your soul."
And that is also how I think of EJ's music: a beautifully bright and warm reflection of a compassionate, articulate, ancient soul.
Sooo. Motivations.
Eric stated in an interview (GP May '96) in answer to the interviewer's final question of, "What's the best reward in your line of work?"
"To make the guitar really sing and make somebody smile."
um. yeah. Whatever you say, Hoss.
hey, I'm smiling right now. (I'd need another hobby if I ever met the guy and all my speculation went *splat* in the presence of the REAL Mr. Johnson...how embarrassing for me.)

ev.

Val and K and intro to ej...

2004-12-05T17:45:00.000-05:00

This is in response to comments posted to the previous entry

A Blog is pretty much experimental territory -- it's an OPEN diary of sorts, and it is unlike all the personal journals that have come before -- even the ones in Newspapers filed from journalists -- in that it is a bunch of individual "Unknowns" who are carrying on their inner dialogs out loud; unlike psychotics, the voices who add comments aren't... er... self-sourced.

Believe it or not -- I can write a story that has a beginning, middle and an end, but my approach here is exactly as you described in the second paragraph: this is a conversation. Yes, with myself first I suppose -- but you, K, L, T, Blueberry, Charlie, Dirk, Darrin, all the Steves, Chris', Davids, Ds, Jimmys, and even my family are never too far away from my thoughts. I think of you all as friends I am chatting with, not an audience I am looking for applause from, but each person individually to share the experience with: this all unfolds organically, but if I do have one, I guess friendly conversation and a good time had by all are my ulterior motives to the hidden agendas -- wow -- talk about a well kept secret! (grin)
K, it's always been my intention to talk about EJ. I just needed to find a platform to launch into one of my favorite subjects.
I am fairly safe in assuming the handful of people who have been to this blog are list people: and it seems copascetic that while Happyland is getting it's foundation poured the Blogger site is undergoing renovations of it's own so this is a slightly less bare assed nekkid public undertaking than for most.
In fact, I was thinking of splitting off and editing into a second Blog all the personal history of mine, because the tea post and the Intro to music is really where I wanted to start. I think that's why the very first entry into Bloggerdom for me was called "Wait -- i need to start over".
I'd read my mail and I've been thinking about your comments as I got myself together today (doing the body/environment maintenance stuff).
eric johnson fascinates me on every possible level -- I think this is pretty evident in the list archives.
First -- there is a definite distinction between knowing the guy who makes the art, and Knowing the Artist.
Case in point: from the first part of Happyland, set into the foundation you all Know me. Knowing that background is not really all that important -- it is more important a thing for ME, than it is for anyone else. (But I'll talk about that later, elsewhere.) Happyland is just "your ev" as more of who I have always been and all of this is evidenced through the list archives and through the roots I've exposed here. Is it art? No. Not any more than each one of us lives in our own day to day life (ironically as I say that I know -- our lives are Art). But I am not offering this up as art, as much as it is tea for two.
You know *me*. I am sitting with you having this conversation. I am speaking as you read my words, I am hearing your voice when you write back to me. We can talk about ANYTHING, from the ridiculous to the sublime; World stage to the personal. You can come to this salon masked or completely naked: I offer the same level of interaction as any one person needs, and possibly more that any one person can handle (*cough cough, choke blush*) but that's just me.
This is therapeutic, relaxing, contemplative, friendly stuff for me.
If it feels like Art to you -- well that's an added bonus for you. Or it could be something you've yet to assimilate and feel comfortable with.
But I am not *An Artist* here. I'll talk about my poetry and what makes me connect to my art --
but does not being understood until the last word falls into place mean I am an artist -- or just really, really weird? (rotflmao)

This is something I have been musing over for a while:
As much as each individual list person feels "a connection" to the music, there is to some extent, large or small, a desire to --
Know the Artist.
This is the nature of emotional attachments.
It is call and echo.
and the call goes out from the Artist, first.
What brings us together is the music, foremost.
we all are performers, artists, and *professional people* of some longevity. L is the youngest person I know of who drops in and reads Happyland, and I include her, as she is *also* a musician. I bring this up because to some degree you have all experienced the responsibility of being a focal point for other people's desires through the engine of imagination. Maybe it hasn't crossed you minds in quite that way -- but if you have ever received applause in your life; yes. You have been Experienced.
It is a difficult place to be. You become something MORE to the people who respond to you... but you are only the same bit of protoplasm walking around doing the same stuff you always do... what is so dang special about that?
There is a principle, a "law" of the universe that is called the law of 3.
simply stated, it says that whatever you put into the world will be returned to you, 3 fold.
If you are cruel and nasty and self serving -- you will experience cruelty, nastiness, and selfishness directed back to you in even greater intensity than the vibe you pump out. Three times as (3 being a good ol' magical number).
and at the other end of the spectrum:
Here is this amazing artist we all think very highly of, if not sticking him on a pedestal and piling up the meditation candles and incense burners and offerings of guitar picks and braided organic guitar straps hip deep.

K asked:
"I know it is pointless to analyze but WHY do we like his music so much? "

I think the answer to that is as personal as the effect Music has on whomever is listening to it. I believe we take from it what we apply to it: by that I mean what ever you are looking for, and you feel you have found ( which may not be the same thing I am looking for) where ever you find it.
I find it hard to discount the fact that most of the articulate, thinking, Eric Johnson appreciating people seem to recognize and respond to this:
EJ's music is Art. And it has been humbly offered to the world in a comparatively plain wrapper, in amongst all the other offerings: the shiny glittery, obnoxiously in-you-face demands for your bucks and your attention that ultimately do not meet the needs of nourishing and healing one's soul.
(And thank goodness for that, eh? where would the cash come from that feeds the machine if we all found ourselves happy and content? There goes the economy!)
Nourishing, and Healing. That is what Art does. It unscrambles the egg, takes you back to the beginning and opens your heart-mind-soul to different paths you didn't know existed. Some Art is created as Ephemera -- and lord knows plenty of ephemera is passed off as Art: but art, real Art touches and heals.
It is a gift that you didn't know to ask for, that can only be given from a source you didn't know existed anyway.

I have no idea what EJ's return is for all the good energy he puts out there for anyone to find: but this is what he does. It truly speaks for itself and with the added Acoustic performances he's doing (which are no more and no less than what has always been part of who he is as an artist, even though the world at large is only just now getting to savor it) it's as if something you thought was eye catching before had 90% of itself hidden from view and NOW....
ohhh.
lol.
don't get me started on the subject of Eric Johnson....
well...er...seems I have, haven't I?

ev.

"After silence,

2004-12-05T05:50:00.000-05:00

that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."

There's no place on the 13 list for favorite music / bands -- mainly because listening to all types of music is what I do, have always done, and can't imagine ever not doing. Make a grocery list of what I like?.. probably easier to list what I don't like. Music is a huge part of why I'm still on the planet. (I suppose I have to start somewhere, somehow...)

I am hypersensitive to sound: it's family documented (first noticed when I was a few days old) and I've also been a lab rat and blown the curve. When I say, Hypersensitive to Sound -- that has nothing to do with Level of Volume When Listening To Music: if I love the Music, I want to be immersed to the pain threshold, I want it to penetrate my inner core from the pores of my skin to every molecule of my composition.

I once assumed that everyone was wired for sound like me: now that I know it's a rare thing; like dreaming in color or being able to touch the tip of your nose with your tongue, I appreciate it even more and cherish it for the gift it is.

I believe the term most often used on my psyche profiles is "histrionic" -- but... when they get to know me -- it modifies to the slightly kinder "*high strung*". After years of therapy (on and off -- it seemed every 7 years I was either "in" for observation or being "treated") the only thing that does work consistently is Music.

I responded to music as treatment at a very early age; my parents identified (after some battle weary weeks) that if music was playing when I was fed -- I would not throw up on them. The more enveloping the tunes -- the happier/calmer I was. Lucky for me my Father was a music lover (Mom could take it or leave it) and he brought out all his favorites: Glenn Miller, the Dorseys, Ellington, Benny Goodman, as well as bringing in Broadway Musical cast recordings. I also had near-teen aged siblings who were into the pop music of the time (I'm 44 years old -- so we are talking pre-Beatles AM radio Brill Building early rock 'n' roll stuff, kids) My earliest memory is being carried on my sister's left hip and having Johnny Angel sung to me accompanied by the sound of her heels on the sidewalk.

But -- Music was not a "serious thing" in my environment. I grew up in a large poor-but-proud Papa-the-law, Mom-the-everything-else family as the passive-bewildered cuckoo in the nest.

Some parts of my childhood were pleasant -- most were not -- as the oyster turns the grit of it's irritants into pearls, carbon under enormous pressure turns into diamonds: Garrison Keillor said, "There are no bad experiences for writers, just more material."

If childhood is the pre-requisite for the adult you become -- I could not end up anything BUT a writer.

Two things saved my life: reading and music.

I'm not kidding.

I've been a reader since I was 3 -- yes. A Reader. Parental involvement is crucial to what ever sort of schooling you apply to children: in my case it was that domestic-goddess-in-training older sister; who was as sweet, loving and nuturing a human being as has ever existed. If she wasn't singing the current top ten in her sweet mezzo soprano, she was reading to me. I soaked it up like...music. (grin). She taught me to read; pointing to letters, sounding them out, getting me to repeat them and locate them on other pages as well. There was no pressure, no developmental graph chart to meet. The books were not necessarily "early reader" books (though I did get a Cat in the Hat Dictionary which, quite simply -- ROCKED), but her own fairytale collections and classics by Alcott and Dumas; even her Language Arts textbooks.

It was a game. It was attention. It was love.

but music was food and air and harmony and balance and light.

and I hadn't even found Music with a capital "M" yet.

Before then music was an aural semi-liquid cushion against all the hard edges of the world: I floated on the tides of it swirling around me without thinking about it; singing songs without connecting to the meanings of the words; song lyrics were nothing more than the parts you sang in the songs...everything was processed on a literal level.

Music came into a sharp clear focus when I was 6 or 7.

I Can See For Miles.

I wanted to play the drums. (This from a child who was a human dormouse: I'd given up sleeping at night because I'd wake up screaming from bad dreams; better to be awake in the dark, reading by flashlight. To this day I prefer sleeping in a darkened room in daylight and moving around, reading, writing, living at night.) Mom said "No."
ok.
Love the Who. Love the Kinks. Love all that high energy, first British Invasion regurgitation of 'Amurrican Rock 'n' Roll' ...favorite Beatles album (but then they're all favorites) is still A Hard Day's Night -- I throw that on the player and love to do the dishes to it when I am cleaning up after a friends-to-supper dishabille. =)

I missed most of Glitter/glam rock, picking over my older sisters 45's record collections, and digging into "solid established rock acts" like Bad Company, Genesis, yes, Yay Kinks you go boys -- straight into slamming face first into the Ramones.

oh god, I love the Ramones music.

For a decade or so -- most of my teen years anyway, I used to listen to a re-broadcast of the British Top 30 hits of the week (don't remember what it was called, I am sure I have cassette tapes in the basement with those programs on them) this was the era when the Punk Movement raided the charts and things were banned -- but selling, of course. Then the nicer wave of sneering kids who actually had learned a few cords while the rest were out shooting up but looking cool took over....Yes, I had every Stiff records release, EVER. and being a sick, sick girl, yes, a Completionist; I had to have all the Brinsley Schwartz records and Man albums and... everything Elvis Costello sneezed on.

I admit to have a weakness for Pop music. A sweet tooth, if you will. I especially love the Alt Pop darlings like Matthew Sweet and Echo and the Bunnymen. late 80's Sire Records artists.

I am familiar with more Country Divas than Straight Pop Divas only because -- as it has been noted -- the catchy cheery sing-along-with-me-now pop tunes are currently being released by Country artists. So Faith Hill, Martina McBride, Trisha, Jo Dee, Chely, and all the gals working that vein -- yep, I know 'em.

and yesssss let us get to the scary embarrassing to admit guilty pleasures of the "boy bands" they are ok. I cannot tell one from the other by listening to them -- or seeing a video, for that matter -- but. if I am listening to the Music Filler in a grocery store and "I Want It That Way" comes on -- I do, indeed, sing along to it. Although if I can, I do my shopping in the market that plays 50's and 60's pop hits. There is nothing to match to the comradeship one feels when tempted to sing along into the just picked off the shelf pound box of spaghetti to A Town Without Pity and turning to see a contemporary contemplating a long neck ketchup bottle in the same manner.

~*^*^* list bit ^*^*^~

"His utter lack of musical ability was only matched by his enthusiasm. That is not meant to be mean. He was clearly tone deaf, augmented with no sense of rhythm or melody: it was *stunning* in its own special way."

Hey ev, did he end up playing in Sonic Youth?

~^*^*^~

not leaving out the deconstructionist music of Sonic Youth (Best indie-artist joke of all time: "Sonic Youth is Neither").

I have been thinking about the crunchy godhood of power chords and what not since that thread was introduced. With a slight nostalgic fondness for the first couple Bad Company albums (Paul Rodgers: ohh baybee yeehaaa! -- I was once a teenager too, y'know.) I am not really a devotee of the Stacks up to Heaven, crank it up to Eleven Heavy Riffs and Napalm Guitar School.
I don't own any Van Halen albums.
Or Led Zeppelin.
stadium rock just didn't do anything for me musically.
I missed the brouhaha of the big hair bands of the 80's -- spent most of that time discovering the joys and perversities of jazz, classical, and the avant garde; along with feeding my ever present hunger for Folk and the well crafted song. (Christine Lavin, Nanci Griffith, Suzanne Vega, as well as the reliable Paul Simon, Joni, and Dylan...) Most of the rock guitar I was listening to at that time were either old buddies like the Beatles, the Kinks, and the Who, or "mid-level artists" a/k/a the mind boggling obscurities like Richard Thompson, Robyn Hitchcock, Dan Hicks, John Hiatt, Nick Lowe and eclectic guys like Fripp, Ry Cooder, Bob Brozman, Tony Rice, John Fahey, John McLaughlin etc...
Nope. Can't say I much cared for the Big and Loud 80's.
Mostly indifferent.
I think there might possibly be a limit to the number of shows a person can appreciate in one lifetime. There was a point in my life, between 18 and 25 (which are the years 1978 thru 1985) I saw a LOT of shows. At one point I lived directly behind a rock club -- I mean, directly. There was a window in my bathroom shower: if you stood on the flat roof of the club you had a framed view of just how clean of body I was... which I found out about 4 months after I moved in. (The window actually faced a brick wall; one of those odd casement things for ventilation. *sigh*) for reasons other than being clean I had access to any show I expressed interest in going to see (helps to be friends with the local AOR radio station's promo director)...and had the alternative of staying home and hearing a show through the walls. Funny thing was, I didn't much enjoy going to shows even then since I don't drink or smoke, and my designer drug is Excedrin.
A lot of shows at that time needed pharmacueticals to get through.

I picked up what little there was guitar hero wise -- Joe Satriani's SWTA comes to mind.. and I was peripherally aware through the radio of Jimi (I mean who needs to OWN a Jimi Hendrix album when "all that" is all over the classic rock stations? *chortle*) So when I walked into the record store in 1990 and the clerk guyz threw AVM on -- I was floored.
It was a religious experience, in the finest sense of those words. " Wow, who is this guy, where did he come from and what else has he got," was what I might have said, had I been capable of coherent speech. And I didn't even get to hear side two for about a week or so. I bought a cassette copy and just kept playing side one of it for Cliffs of Dover and Desert Rose, over and over. High Landrons seemed anti-climatic, (ev laughs now). When I did finally turn it over and heard Trademark, down through to East Wes... and then turned it over again ....and then turned it over again...
you know how it is, when you can't help yourself from listening to something? I wrote this a while back, when I was thinking about Suzanne Vega's little masterpiece of a record, Solitude Standing the first part is Language from side two):

If language were liquid
it would be rushing in
instead here we are
in a silence more eloquent
Than any word could ever be

Words are too solid
They don't move fast enough
To catch the blur in the brain
that flies by and is gone
Gone
Gone
Gone...
~~~~~~~~~
(ev muses)

over and over and over

I remember playing side two
letting the arm of the record player
lift and go back again like
a memory that couldn't be

helped but for entropy
inertia...to stop
requiring an act of God
or not meeting the bill:

over and over and over

the same set of songs
spinning at 33 1/3 rotations per
the songs that would never get radio play
but spoke to me anyway

over and over and over

aural paint brushing pictures
behind my eyes not
sophisticated acrylics but
something shockingly simple

a mix of blood and crayons (Words are too solid)
visceral vespers (They don't move fast enough)
solitude standing (To catch the blur in the brain)
second side (that flies by and is gone)

over and over and over....
~

Maybe it's that touch of autism that compels me to listen to music repeatedly over and over, or maybe it's a form of primitive magick (20th century primitive!) the sympathetic magick of the groove of the record transferred as the needle vibrates and shivers out sound, carving a parallel groove in the heart, mind and soul. (mmmm, never plumbed the depths of why I love vinyl so much, that probably does figure into it.) I wish I had a copy of AVM on vinyl -- I'd probably have done the same thing to it's side two. =)
ahhhh, I come back to EJ. I always do. Everything I love and need from music just pours out of the guy.
Is he perfect? Nope. He's human, and all human beings are works in progress; after all, everything we do either makes noise or stinks and manners and sophistication only teach you to ignore that in others and repress it in yourself, right?
I'm seriously thinking I have got to move closer to Austin, just so I can hear him do more of all the things he can do. I know there's so much more in that EJ shaped package, and it is so FRUSTRATING to have to be at the whim of what a recording company feels has "commercial potential".
good grief.
eric johnson. Don't get me started....

ev.

Did Someone Mention...TEA?

2004-12-03T03:36:00.000-05:00

I love tea. =)
If you are of the thought that tea is an invalid's drink to be tolerated with milk and sugar only when you are too sick to take coffee... most likely you grew up in a household that buys 100 tea bags in a paperboard box, the teabags themselves wrapped in paper as porous as tissue but can still deliver a paper cut. IF they are individually wrapped at all. Over the Holidays last year, I was offered Tetley tea from a battered paperboard box that pre-dated the Clinton administration. Yes. I still shudder, but the nightmares are fading: if that is your idea of tea...

I do love tea.
The world seems to be rediscovering the joys of infusions.
some history:

*^*^*^*^*^*

True Teas are made from the dried leaves of the Camellia sinensis, an evergreen plant of the Camellia family. It was first cultivated in China, and found growing wild in India. Chinese Monks and European traders introduced it to Japan, Sri Lanka and other countries of suitable climate for it's growth. Variations in climate, soil and processing are responsible for the individual characteristics of each tea.

Herbal teas contain no true tea leaves, but are created from an international assortment of herbs and spices, and are prepared for the most part as true tea -- infusing the herbs in boiling water for a few minutes. A different species, in all respects! (don't get me wrong -- I love Celestial Seasonings Zingers, rich with Vitamin C and zilched in caffeine: but lets talk about REAL teas and leave the Herbals for another installment. )

Black tea is made from tea leaves that are ripened (fermented) and then heated and dried. The aspect that is called "ripening" allows for the tea leaf to release a deeper flavor and a reddish brown colored brew.

Green tea is made from leaves that are not "ripened"(fermented), but are heated and dried. This produces a uniquely greenish brew with a slightly bitter flavor, which is closer to the taste of the fresh leaf than that of black tea. Green tea is rich in antioxidants, and in our health conscious times has become very popular with the sort of people who enjoy juicing radishes and rutabeggas for their health benefits. Green tea is an aquired taste, and I prefer it with a complimenting fruit in the tea blend itself -- lemon, mango -- or with mint.

Chai has become very popular with people taking it as a coffee alternative. Chai is an aromatic tea that uses spices such as cinnamon, pepper, cloves, cardamom and ginger to give it a spicy and sweet flavor. Chai is really what most people drink in the States; it has always meant tea commonly mixed with milk (or soymilk, for the lactose intolerant. I LOVE Chai with Vanilla soymilk, it is a treat!)

Tea leaves, black or green, are sorted by size -- sifted through screens. the most expensive are the full leaf "silver" tips of first flush. You will never find this grade of tea in a tea bag. Most commercial teas, Lipton, Tetley, Red Rose, Salada, White Rose, are made from the cheapest, smallest bits of broken tea leaves. "I love those tiny little tea leaves...." aacckk!

^*^*^*^*^*^

My favorite "commercially available" brand of tea is "Swee-Touch-Nee" which can be found in the Kosher section of most large supermarkets; this is because it is the tea bag of choice of Jewish Delicatessens and those who know from good tasting, Bubbeh!! Also, in the same section (Kosher) you can buy an actual tin of Swee-Touch-Nee loose tea. If you need some kind of a standard to select an everyday knock back tea, ask yourself: "Do they sell this in a loose version?" You don't have to buy it in a loose form; buy those bags. We'll talk about the joys of loose tea in a minute. If you really want to distance yourself from your Momma's cuppa, for $2.99 pick up a box of Earl Grey. I find the bergamot scent of Earl Grey tea very soothing and a favorite afternoon tension tamer, not to mention the drawing properties of bergamot make it MOST effective at that time of the month. (stir that with a teaspoon Captain Picard!) There are many, many companies that market an Earl Grey Blend. Celestial Seasonings has an Earl Grey! Try one. Go crazy go nuts, and if you don't like the taste, they can be used to make your undie drawer smell good.

Ahhhh, loose tea.
It is especially important to know How To Boil Water if you are going to make a pot of tea. Yep -- and I bet you think She is out of her mind. Have you ever tasted a cup of tea that was so vile it reeked of wet dog -- at best?! Guess what? The water wasn't properly prepared.
You will need two water holding containers, one of which is called a tea kettle, the other of which is called a tea pot. The kettle is metal or heat resistant Corning glass; suitable for the application of direct heat: the larger the bottom of the kettle, the faster your water will boil. (There is a recent trend to conical / triangular shaped tea kettles in the chic Kitchen catalogs -- these supply flat bottoms for quick boil, and narrow tops that contain and return the steam that doesn't vent through the spout to the kettle -- a good and bad thing.) Always start your kettle with fresh cold water. Oxygen, Baybee! Tea depends on the excited oxygen in the water to get a full release of the flavor and to hold the tannins on a leash. When water is over-boiled, the oxygen escapes and you're left with flat lifeless sterile water: the delicate flavors of the leaves give up -- but the tannic acids LOVE it. Bleah! The best thing to do is listen to your kettle: with a little attunation, you will pick up your kettle's language of passion. And it is passion -- ancient, creaky, moanin' and gruntin' passion. As color is the suffering of light, so tea is the seduction of water. hehe.
While your water is coming along, prepare the tea pot. Rinse it out and fill it with the hottest possible tap water and wrap it in a tea towel (or cozy) to hold the heat. You want the tea pot acclimated to hot water: it's a Zen sorta thing. As for your loose tea (yes, we are actually going to deal with loose tea) get a teaspoon from your kitchen drawer. Not a measuring spoon that is an actual teaspoon. A teaspoon measurement is 2 ounces. a serviceware teaspoon is..not quite, but is standardized for the precision measuring of tea. Do you know, off the top of your head, how many ounces make a cup of tea? Yes, there are 8 ounces in a cup, but there are 6 ounces to a tea cup.
Are you beginning to understand why the English are all reputably mad? Demon, fiendish, confounding tea!
They do this all the time. Without even questioning why it's so difficult... because, once you have a truly fine cuppa -- you'll do it all the time too. And when you don't go through the ritualized steps, you will know you are cheating yourself.
I wonder if this is also the root of why the British play Cricket, drive on the wrong side of the street, and insist on motorways with roundabouts. hmm. I digress.
Teapots come in 16oz, 24oz, 32oz, and 48oz sizes. They are made from just about anything that can hold hot water, and several things that probably shouldn't be asked to. Some people collect tea pots. Since I am fairly well known as a lover of tea, I have been given several tea pots. I do not collect tea pots. I desire one tea pot: it is a tea pot known as the British Brown Betty. I would gladly collect an entire room full of British Brown Betty's (32oz please). They are delightful to the eye: a rich deep earthy brown, sexy as chocolate, primordial, God's paint box B-R-O-W-N; the shape is cheerfully plump, solidly dependable, and so is the weight -- it is made of a particular type of red terracotta clay that I suppose God decided was too remarkable a substance for shaping men from -- he saved it all for the eventual marriage to tea-making. Though I have used one I don't own one; every shop and catalog I've tried are out of stock. I should go to eBay and start the process...*sigh*. Don't get me started on eBay -- I am convinced it is an alien plot to control the world: eBay is an acronym for Hypnotic Alien Time Dilator in the Jawa language or some such. Anyway -- I use a nice enough stone glazed 16oz teapot when I'm moved to make loose tea.
When your kettle is just near to steaming, empty the teapot of it's pre-tea water, wrap it back in it's warm towel and measure the tea into it. A tea ball can be used to hold the tea: this is either a pierced metal egg shape that screws together with a chain leash for removal or a mesh ball with a do-hickey clasp and chain leash; since the purpose of loose tea is to use the biggest leaves you can afford and to allow them to expand in the hot water, use the largest tea ball you can find -- never pack the tea into it. (Don't ask; yes I watched someone fill a tea ball and tamp it down as if they were going to smoke the damn thing. This woman also used saffron and cardamom with a more is MORE sort of abandon; biting into her coffee cake was parallel to gnawing on a block of cedar with icing.) There is also a thingamabob called the golden swiss filter; haven't used one yet. Or -- if you don't mind the unbelievable permeating mess and interminable clean up -- let your tea leaves go free range in the pot. If you elect to do this: you will need a second tea pot to strain the tea into when it has finished steeping. A thermal carafe also works nicely.
One teaspoon per two 6 oz tea cups you plan to serve. I measure it into my hand from the tin for the feel of it. (Yes, I am a heathen.)
By now you will have steam escaping your kettle. Shut it off. Sing "Jerusalem": (Since I am usually brewing a pot of Earl Grey; works for me. I have also been known to whistle "Waterloo Sunset", and of course "Afternoon Tea": anything from "Village Green Preservation Society" pick-a-Kinks-tune-released prior to the Arista years its ALL good.) whether you sing or whistle or count to 99, give the boil a chance to settle. Then pour from the tea kettle into the tea pot and put the lid of the tea pot down, wrap it snuggly in the tea towel, and leave it alone for 3-4 minutes. A nice rousing version of "Victoria" usually does it. "Cliffs of Dover" works too. *-) Separate the tea from the tea leaves; either de ball (would that be a gelding?) or strain into another warmed receptacle. Ta -da! You now have TEA.
I understand the Japanese have had more time to develop tea rituals and they can get really complicated. (oh, I just crack myself up sometimes.)
There is a sweet children's story called, "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie ". It is a story of how one thing leads to another and escalates in ludicrous degrees until you find yourself right back at the beginning again. If I am going to brew a pot of loose tea, then I want TEA. Someone to brew it for. Someone to share tea sandwiches and savories with, which means making tea sandwiches and savories oh AND a something sweet, but not gooey sweet: it is after all tea -- not dessert. I am very sure I have spent several incarnations as both a tea drinker and a TEA drinker. I hate most social conventions -- but I do secretly long for High Tea at the Ritz. It's the most Taurean element of my soul. NOT that I would make it a daily or weekly ritual -- but a once or twice a year thing -- yeah. Complete with tea frock, hat, hose, and heels. I blame Ray Davies of the Kinks for awakening this English yearning in my consciousness. He's not only Veddy Veddy British -- he's written a half dozen songs that I know of extolling the joys and virtues of tea drinking. (Yes, corrupted by English Pop Star! film at 11:00! Like the Rutles but less well known...)
As for the more esoteric and sublime blends of tea -- I am not a true nut case snob / tea Nazi: (REALLY I'm NOT) but I appreciate the differences.
In the kitchen I have a 3 tiered utility rack under the cabinet with
Swee-Touch-Nee (Bags and loose)
Tea India's Masala Chai (recent local find in the tea section of an Indie Grocer, it's delish. =))))
Bigelow's Constant Comment (Regular and Green), Vanilla Chai, Vanilla Carmel, Raspberry Royale, Cinnamon Stick, Green Tea with Mango, and Green Tea with Mint (Can you tell I have a sweet tooth?)
Stash's Blueberry, Lemon Ginger, Morrocan Mint, and Chai Spiced Black
Twinings Earl Grey (bags and loose), Prince of Wales, Lemon & Ginger, Four Red Fruits, Mary Twinings Spiced, and Lady Grey.
Various Celestial Seasonings Zingers, Wild Blueberry, and Orange and Spice
currently OUT of Trader Joe's Organic Earl Grey which is a special trip but so worth it.
I do always have a small (Altoids) tin in my hand bag with a few favorite tea bags, And yes -- I always offer to share.

Even with the well meaning soul who offered the Tetley.

time for another mug.

links to tea companies (two of them are even headquartered in my home state)

http://www.bigelowtea.com

http://www.stashtea.com

http://www.twinings.com

http://www.harney.com
This year I'm heading up state to Harney's tasting room -- There's a Brown Betty with my name on it!

ev.
)O(

DOUGLAS ADAMS' VIEW OF AUSTRALIA

2004-12-03T01:04:00.000-05:00

DOUGLAS ADAMS' VIEW OF AUSTRALIA
The Douglas Adams of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy fame

Australia is a very confusing place, taking up a large amount of the Bottom half of the planet. It is recognisable from orbit because of many unusual features, including what at first looks like an enormous bite taken out of its southern edge; a wall of sheer cliffs which plunge deep into the girting sea. Geologists assure us that this is simply an accident of geomorphology and plate tectonics, but they still call it the "Great Australian Bight" proving that not only are they covering up a more frightening theory, but they can't spell either.

The first of the confusing things about Australia is the status of the place. Where other land masses and sovereign lands are classified as either continent, island, or country, Australia is considered all three.
Typically, it is unique in this.
The second confusing thing about Australia are the animals. They can be divided into three categories: Poisonous, Odd, and Sheep.
It is true that of the 10 most poisonous arachnids on the planet, Australia has 9 of them. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that of the 9 most poisonous arachnids, Australia has all of them. However, there are curiously few snakes, possibly because the spiders have killed them all. But even the spiders won't go near the sea.
Any visitors should be careful to check inside boots (before putting them on), under toilet seats (before sitting down) and generally everywhere else. A stick is very useful for this task.
Strangely, it tends to be the second class of animals (the Odd) that are more dangerous. The creature that kills the most people each year is the common Wombat. It is nearly as ridiculous as its name, and spends its life digging holes in the ground, in which it hides. During the night it comes out to eat worms and grubs.
The wombat kills people in two ways: First, the animal is indestructible. Digging holes in the hard Australian clay builds muscles that outclass Olympic weight lifters. At night, they often wander the roads. Semi-trailers (Road Trains) have hit them at high speed, with all 9 wheels on one side, and this merely makes them very annoyed. They express this by snorting, glaring, and walking away. Alas, to smaller cars, the wombat becomes a symmetrical launching pad, with results that can be imagined, but not adequately described.
The second way the wombat kills people relates to its burrowing behaviour. If a person happens to put their hand down a Wombat hole, the Wombat will feel the disturbance and think "Ho! My hole is collapsing!" at which it will brace its muscled legs and push up against the roof of its burrow with incredible force, to prevent its collapse. Any unfortunate hand will be crushed, and attempts to withdraw will cause the Wombat to simply bear down harder. The unfortunate will then bleed to death through their crushed hand as the wombat prevents him from seeking assistance. This is considered the third most embarrassing known way to die, and Australians don't talk about it much.
At this point, we would like to mention the Platypus, estranged relative of the mammal, which has a duck-bill, otter's tail, webbed feet, lays eggs, detects its aquatic prey in the same way as the electric eel, and has venomous barbs attached to its hind legs, thus combining all 'typical' Australian attributes into a single improbable creature.

The last confusing thing about Australia is the inhabitants. First, a short history: Some time around 40,000 years ago, some people arrived in boats from the north. They ate all the available food, and lot of them died. The ones that survived learned respect for the balance of nature, man's proper place in the scheme of things, and spiders. They settled in, and spent a lot of the intervening time making up strange stories. Then, around 200 years ago, Europeans arrived in boats from the north. More accurately, European convicts were sent, with a few deranged and stupid people in charge. They tried to plant their crops in Autumn (failing to take account of the reversal of the seasons when moving from the top half of the planet to the bottom), ate all their food, and a lot of them died.
About then the sheep arrived, and have been treasured ever since. It is interesting to note here that the Europeans always consider themselves vastly superior to any other race they encounter, since they can lie, cheat, steal, and litigate (marks of a civilised culture they say) - whereas all the Aboriginals can do is happily survive being left in the middle of a vast red-hot desert, equipped with a stick. Eventually, the new lot of people stopped being Europeans on Extended Holiday and became Australians.
The changes are subtle, but deep, caused by the mind-stretching expanses of nothingness and eerie quiet, where a person can sit perfectly still and look deep inside themselves to the core of their essence, their reasons for being, and the necessity of checking inside your boots every morning for fatal surprises. They also picked up the most finely tuned sense of irony in the world, and the Aboriginal gift for making up stories.
Be warned. There is also the matter of the beaches. Australian beaches are simply the nicest and best in the entire world. Although anyone actually venturing into the sea will have to contend with sharks, stinging jellyfish, stonefish (a fish which sits on the bottom of the sea, pretends to be a rock, and has venomous barbs sticking out of its back that will kill just from the pain) and surfboarders. However, watching a beach sunset is worth the risk.

As a result of all this hardship, dirt, thirst, and wombats, you would expect Australians to be a dour lot. Instead, they are genial, jolly, cheerful, and always willing to share a kind word with a stranger, unless they are an American.
Faced with insurmountable odds and impossible problems, they smile disarmingly and look for a stick. Major engineering feats have been performed with sheets of corrugated iron, string, and mud.
Alone of all the races on earth, they seem to be free from the 'Grass is Greener on the other side of the fence' syndrome, and roundly proclaim that Australia is, in fact, the other side of that fence. They call the land "Oz", "Godzone" (a verbal contraction of "God's Own Country") and "Best bloody place on earth, bar none, strewth." The irritating thing about this is they may be right.
There are some traps for the unsuspecting traveller, though. Do not under any circumstances suggest that the beer is imperfect, unless you are comparing it to another kind of Australian beer. Do not wear a Hawaiian shirt. Religion and Politics are safe topics of conversation (Australians don't care too much about either) but Sport is a minefield. The only correct answer to "So, howdya' like our country, eh?" is "Best {insert your own regional swear word here} country in the world!".
It is very likely that, on arriving, some cheerful Australians will 'adopt' you on your first night, and take you to a pub where Australian Beer is served. Despite the obvious danger, do not refuse. It is a form of initiation rite. You will wake up late the next day with an astonishing hangover, a foul-taste in your mouth, and wearing strange clothes. Your hosts will usually make sure you get home, and waive off any legal difficulties with "It's his first time in Australia, so we took him to the pub.", to which the policeman will sagely nod and close his notebook.
Be sure to tell the story of these events to every other Australia, you encounter, adding new embellishments at every stage, and noting how strong the beer was. Thus you will be accepted into this unique culture.
Most Australians are now urban dwellers, having discovered the primary use of electricity, which is air-conditioning and refrigerators.

Typical Australian sayings:
* "G'Day!"
* "It's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick."
* "She'll be right."
* "And down from Kosciusko, where the pine clad ridges raise their torn and rugged battlements on high, where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze at midnight in the cold and frosty sky.
And where, around the overflow, the reed beds sweep and sway to the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide. The Man from Snowy River is a household word today, and the stockmen tell the story of his ride."

Tips to Surviving Australia:
* Don't ever put your hand down a hole for any reason whatsoever. We mean it.
* The beer is stronger than you think, regardless of how strong you think it is.
* Always carry a stick.
* Air-conditioning.
* Do not attempt to use Australian slang, unless you are a trained linguist and good in a fist fight.
* Thick socks.
* Take good maps. Stopping to ask directions only works when there are people nearby.
* If you leave the urban areas, carry several litres of water with you at all times, or you will die.
* Even in the most embellished stories told by Australians, there is always a core of truth that it is unwise to ignore.

See Also: "Deserts: How to die in them", "The Stick: Second most useful thing ever" and "Poisonous and Venomous arachnids, insects, animals, trees, shrubs, fish and sheep of Australia, volumes 1-42"

Feedback Vortex

2004-12-02T02:52:00.000-05:00

I read what you wrote on your blog about the sexual abuse you suffered. I have no experience with this type of situation and to say that I am sorry this happened to you seems inadequate. I am sorry tho and I will say that I think you show great courage in talking about it. As for how this has shaped your life--I get a more positive than negative vibe from you. I'm sure by talking about it you are helping others who have experienced something similar. Good for you!....Sure ev, It's ok to add it to your blog. Just T is ok with me. I want to read your email again and think about what you've said. It's important to me to understand how you feel and how you work on being well. Thanks for trusting me with your thoughts. ~T.

***********

This was what I wrote T -- and, I hope I can be forgiven for a slight edit and fixing some of the incomplete thoughts. ... I'm including it in the main Blog and hope all future comments and reactions to my history can be tagged on in comments here. Encouraging, friendly, hostile, hurt -- however it makes you feel is valid.

Usually I've only talked to people about my abuse when they are crying out from their own pain and horrors -- I believe I said that to you in an earlier (off-off-list =)) email -- which got me thinking: you having "normal"(no offense meant by that!) sexual attitudes, and my hesitancy in talking about my own sexuality... said to me I had unresolved issues I needed to deal with. So -- of the many contributing factors to the reasons I put it into the blog: I realized there are people -- decent, "normal" people who have no idea this sort of stuff can happen, has happened -- and more importantly, can be "adjusted" to living with and gotten over, and even allowed to be a positive growth opportunity. Not being traumatized! That unequivocally sucks; but shit happens and you learn to deal: otherwise you are living in the nightmare demilitarized zone victim-hood, with your trauma an event horizon of the black hole of human experience(s).
That's the most important thing I think, in getting it out into a public light (penlight flash beam that it may be): that readers know people who have been victims don't live their lives with a victim mentality.
I'm truly ok, and better than I have ever been before in my life: because I'm working it out. Feels like progress....
It's like -- having cut the record -- I don't need to live with those tracks or listen to it constantly! (Yeah -- my own little "Venus Isle".) BUT --
I also understand that now -- for the rest of my life other people will know about it, and for whatever reasons necessary in their own life stage I will be asked to talk about it; or I will be judged by it, or dismissed by it, or told it must be a complete fabrication of my sick mind wanting attention...WHATever. It Is Out and accessible to anyone who cares to take the time to read it. I hope it helps other people.
Trauma is trauma is Trauma.
You know -- it is possibly the most awful and disgusting taboo -- I have had women who were brutally raped -- one who even had been raped and went through an abortion as a result of it --weep for me, which is fairly astonishing.
I was more a victim of status quo. (Which is not to say I approve of my first 8 years. oy.) The actual "event" may differ, but the real abuse is one all victims have in common -- whether it is Combat Fatigue Syndrome, sexual abuse, verbal, physical, the diagnosis of a Chronic or Terminal disease: being outside of normal, and not knowing how to fit back in -- OR -- wondering if you ever really did, before -- or if you ever can, again. Survivors either find the means to have a better life than they lived before, or they limp through their days in a half-life state. What I wrote in the blog post Feedback about feeling "pithed". Oh Gods -- do I know that feeling well.
Certainly it has contributed to the person I am; and for years I have been ashamed of living with what happened to me, for surviving it -- and having an appetite for sex....THAT was the hardest thing to accept. I should be shell shocked and divorced from liking sexual contact -- I was exploited and used! It's a profoundly illogical thing to contemplate, but there it is -- like a Mobiëus strip, a twist: and suddenly you have both sides of the paper as one side of paper.
The conundrum does make sense when I reconcile myself to the hideous simplicity of the truth of what happened.
My being able to know when it started was a gift. It took a loooong time to see it that way. Knowing has slowly slipped the knots in my psyche -- I went through a lot of silent self persecution (from 9, 10 years old on, coinciding (naturally) with the onset of puberty) trying to understand how I could be such a big perv and love my own sexuality and other's: I still have most of my childhood memories blocked, and suffered migraines for years: even ending up hospitalized (I'll dig that list post out and pop it in sometime soon.) All my own doing: reactionary, counter-intuitive writhing over something ridiculously out of my control. I see that now. But acceptance took it's own sweet time to permeate my consciousness.
I was interested enough in the Asperger Syndrome connection to look up one of my ex-therapists and talk to him about that: over the course of talking, I brought up the "reveal" that came out when I was 35 -- and it seems a pretty big what came first Chicken-or-the-egg dilemma. Was I a more likely victim because I am Aspie? Or did the incestual infant abuse trigger a reaction LIKE but not quite AS? OR... was it a text book case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time -- and really all about whatever the hell made my brother a sociopath -- which just placed me in his consuming and indifferent path?

thanks for taking the time to read it.
I was feeling concerned that it would overwhelm you to the point of losing you. You see -- I really haven't ever discussed this with a non-traumatized person before. ...
Obviously, as I was writing to you I was sorting out how I do feel about...well, everything.
Most of my writing before jumping on the Internet had been of a different nature -- not as personal, for one thing(!) I'm pulling together "the presentation" of what I am not so much specifically written for / in the blog, but from all the places I do my thinking -- which seems to be notes to friends, abortive attempts at notes for the list (Abso-fucking-lutely No Eric Johnson Content), poetry, forum contents. I don't think I've had an entry yet that's purely a blog entry.
lol.
I do everything else ass-backwards, this should be different?!
Everything is always constantly changing: growing and dying off: whether we're ready to accommodate it, or not.
If I've injured anyone with my matter-of-fact self-exposure: I am deeply sorry.
Walk away and forget you ever read any of this. You don't need to know this, and you aren't ready to find some comfort here.
I'm reading the new Anita Blake novel (by Laurell K. Hamilton) and on page 29, Anita tells the readers:
"The trick to hearing awful memories is not to be horrified. The only one allowed to have emotion is the one doing the telling. This listener has to be cool."
If I were there with you talking face to face, and you had suffered some awful thing and were unable to begin to articulate it -- feeling that what you had seen / participated in / had done to you was beyond talking about, and when I told you nothing you could possibly say would shock me; and you would come back with, "oh yeah? you think so?"
Then. That's when I tell people my story. And because I tell my story to shock a wounded person out of their own private hell of despair and self-hate and horror that they might be a monster...
I am the opposite of the words Anita offers. I am cool in the telling, and I am strong when my story breaks the badly constructed (or damaged) shell shields of other trauma victims.
I wish I was there for you.
But I am here.
Write to me.
I listen much, much better than I write.

ev.

-------------------------------------
Your daily dose of... VocabVitamins
This week's theme is: My head is spinning.
vortex
(noun)
[VOR·teks']
1. a powerful circular current of water, usually the result of conflicting tides; whirlpool
2. a place or situation that seems to swamp or engulf everything else:
"As it has happened with so many actors, he was swept up in the vortex of Hollywood." Origin:Approximately 1652; borrowed from Latin, 'vortex,' variant of 'vertex': an eddy of water or air, from 'vertere': to turn.

The Thief

2004-12-01T17:48:00.000-05:00

This is a true story about my father. Rather, to be exact, it is a story my father told me, but it involved his friend moreso than himself.

A few years ago, my father had recently been to his club and met up with an old friend from his youth named Roy. They sat down over lunch and had a nice long chat catching up after so many years. My father shared his adventures through life, and Roy shared his. And in Roy's life adventure was buried an interesting lesson or two.

It all started back in the years following the Great Depression of the 1930’s. In Toronto there is an area that is now quite an expensive enclave of Victorian homes that have been restored and are owned by wealthy people. But back in the 1930’s, 40’s, 50’s it was a very poor area indeed. It is called Cabbagetown, because the people in those days used to grow cabbages in their tiny little postage-stamp-sized yards, in order to have food to eat. It was a rough neighborhood full of rough people going through a rough time.
My father grew up there in that time. They lived in different houses, changing almost every year. But always they remained in Cabbagetown. As the eldest child in a family of nine that could not afford to feed the lot of them on a printer’s salary, he was sent out to the streets to make his own way in the world when he was only 15 years old. He was almost entirely deaf, so it was no longer possible to go to school, and it was difficult for a deaf street kid to find work, as well. It was a tough time living on the streets for a couple of years. He made friends with a less than desirable crowd. Roy was one of those less than sterling companions. He had taken to sitting on the top of his garage at night and dropping a brick onto the heads of drunks that wandered by, so he could take whatever money they had left, drag their body around the corner into the alley, and then climb back up and sit and wait for the next drunk to come along.

Finally one day, Roy had the idea to break into one of the huge mansions of Rosedale and steal their valuables. These are huge mansions and many were the homes of “old money’ families from England, that had come over to Canada 150 years ago to settle there. They were the original aristocracy and wealthy landowners. They were the people who had founded the country. These were their ancestral homes for generations and generations. He had heard someone say there was one family going on vacation and would be away for a few weeks, so he decided to make his strike then. This particular family did go on vacation as expected, and he broke into the house, searched around until he found the lady’s hidden jewelry, then left with that in a bag. He took it home and, for the moment, he stuffed the bag of jewelry into the hole in the brick wall over his garage, and covered it up.

He met with my father a few days later and told him what he had done, and also wondered what he should do with the jewelry to keep it safe while the police were looking for it. Roy was afraid to try to fence any of the pieces because they were so ‘hot’ still that no fence or pawnbroker would take them, or if they did, they certainly wouldn’t give him a decent price for them.

In the end, he decided to place the bag of jewelry in the safest place he could think of. A bank!
So he went to the bank and rented a safe-deposit box and stuffed the bag inside it, and locked it away. Now he knew no one would find it nor would any of his ‘friends’ be able to steal it from him.

With that nest-egg safely tucked away, he breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention to making a living. It didn’t really matter what he did now, because he knew that he was already rich. He was really just biding his time. He already had the money stashed away in the bank just waiting for the right time to pull it out one piece at a time and cash it in and spend it. He was set for life – he just had to wait a while. Perhaps a year or so, he thought. In the meantime, he would just pick up any kind of opportunities he could think of to make a living.

So he tried a variety of several different companies. He brought in Christmas trees from the country and sold them from a lot in downtown Toronto. That was profitable, but obviously seasonal. He tried painting houses, but that was a disaster. He tried to do home repairs, but that ended badly too. Even his landscaping business was a flop. In fact one homeowner was threatening to sue. But it just didn’t matter, he knew he couldn’t really fail. He just tried one business after another while he was waiting for the right moment to go and get that jewelry.

But then, several months and several businesses later, a funny thing happened. One of his businesses started to pick up. He had started it by picking up some scrap metal from a factory and loading onto his pickup truck and taking it to a metal smelter who bought it off him. Then he went to various other factories and did the same. He would pick up their old metal scrap and then take it to the smelter and sell it to them. He became familiar with all the factories in the whole downtown area. He knew who to see on what days in order to pick up their scrap metal. To them, he was doing them a favor by carting it away. But it was worth something to the smelters, so he always had a place to sell as much as he could collect. It got so that he needed a place to take it for the interim so that he could sort out the different types of metal and get a better price for the batches. So he rented a fenced lot. He would bring the truckloads of scrap there, sort iot into piles by metal type, and then take one load at a time of each metal type to the smelter. This little scrap business started to grow. Soon, he found he needed a second pickup truck and hired a few men to help. Then a third truck. Then more men. Well, he kept growing it and growing it. He totally immersed himself in it. The months went by. Then a couple of years went by as he continued to grow this business successfully.

He met a woman, and got married. He had no real worries about income because his scrap business was doing well, and of course he still had the jewelry back at the bank. But for now the business was giving him everything he needed. By this time, he had come to think of the jewelry as a backup plan, rather than his primary plan for success. He and his wife soon had children. The children grew. The years started flying by.

His scrap metal business had now turned into quite a nice business worth several million dollars. It was very successful, but very time and energy consuming.

He realized that he no longer needed the nest-egg in the bank safety deposit box, so he just left it there for a rainy day. After all, he had seen rough times and he knew that rough times would come again someday and he wanted to be ready for them. He just knew that the good times wouldn’t last forever. One day the economy might fail, and if it did, his business might easily fail, and if that happened, then he still had his fallback plan. His jewelry nest-egg would make sure that his family would always be well taken care of.

But the economy didn’t fail beyond the normal recessions that come every decade. The business remained intact – and thrived. The years went by. His daughters grew up and were married and had their own children. So far his business was still flourishing. He had never told his wife or family about the jewelry back in the bank safety deposit box. He kept it hidden as a dark secret about his youth. He had become an honest businessman. He didn’t have to lie or cheat or steal from anyone, and he had become a very upstanding member of the community. He was a wealthy man now. He employed a large number of people. Lots of people looked up to him. His wife and family looked up to him. He couldn’t let them know he had stolen that jewelry. That meant he was a thief. It was his dirty little secret from a distant past, and he couldn’t tell anyone about it. It was his secret shame. He had come to wish he had never broken into that house in Rosedale so many years ago when he was young.
Meanwhile, his business continued to grow.

Finally, one day, when he was 66 years old, he went to the doctor and the doctor told him he had a heart problem and he wasn’t going to live much more than a year.
He started thinking about what he wanted to do in that last year he had left. He had never really been an especially religious man, but, like a lot of people when they come to the last stages of their life, he found he had been thinking about God lately and he started to think about what was going to happen once he died. He realized that that jewelry that he had stolen as a youth and had kept as his dirty little secret for almost 50 years, was going to be a black mark on his record. It marred his soul, and that started to eat at him. He started to feel guilty. He thought about it every day, but couldn’t tell his family or anyone about it because he had to keep it secret.

Finally, he couldn’t stand the feelings of guilt any longer. He decided he wanted to make it right. He wanted to make reparations to the family that he had stolen from. He wanted to wipe the slate clean, and he wanted it clean before he died – and he was running out of time.

So he hired a private detective to look into the family of that home he had robbed so many years before. He remembered the address, and gave it to the detective. It turned out that the house was one of the ancestral family homes of the area, and that family had lived there for well over a hundred years. That family still lived there. Probably not the actual lady of the house at the time from 50 years before, but her children still lived there. So he planned a visit to them.

But he thought it wouldn’t be proper reparation if he just simply handed back the jewelry and said “sorry”. He had had the use of it for 50 years. Although he never did sell any of it, he at least knew it was there and having that safety net there gave him the courage and confidence to try all those businesses until he found one that succeeded. When he really thought about it, he came to realize that that really was the core of his success. Without the knowledge of having that to fall back on, he never would have tried the things he did to make a business successful. He never would have made the investments or taken the risks he needed to to survive. He owed that family more than just simply returning it.

So he sent the jewelry in to be appraised and he planned that he would give them interest on the value of the jewelry. He started to worry about that. He did a few calculations about what the interest would add up to over 50 years. He started to think that perhaps if he just paid them DOUBLE what it was worth, in todays values – that would be enough of a sincere gesture to ease his guilt and hive him the open door to heave he was looking for.

The result came back from the appraiser.
The jewelry turned out to be costume jewelry. It was completely worthless. When he had taken it, he was young, he didn’t know real jewelry from imitation jewelry. He just made an assumption that a wealthy woman living in a huge mansion like that would have real jewelery. All his life he lived thinking that he had a nest egg there. A safety net. He always felt that he could not fail and so he didn’t. He did make it work. No matter what came up, he could always just take it calmly know that nothing could ever really hurt him.
Now, looking back, he realized that It didn’t matter that the jewelry was fake. All that mattered in this case was that he THOUGHT it was real, and so he acted as though it were real, and that allowed him to do what was needed to be successful. His attitude made all the difference.

Val

vertiginous*

2004-11-29T22:22:00.000-05:00

Canadian Humor. ark ark. uh....that was a joke, right?

I joined an MSN group recently that has both sides of actual topical issues being discussed in a fairly civilized and informed manner (here's a link to the all topics board):
http://groups.msn.com/OurVoices/virtualmarch.msnw?all_topics=1

Sorry Val -- although it's open for everyone to read, to post it's women only. (What's wild is I bet you'd get dozens of brain groupies, lol.) It is intriguing to see "The Ladies" hold with some interesting beliefs. I forget what interacting with people can be like... even the opposition over there aren't so scary.

also... ick. It's Monday and nearly December.
The weather has been surprisingly kind here in the Northeast: the sun was shining and the temperatures have been hovering in the 50s during daylight hours.
The only thing I like about the cold is how good it feels to curl up in a blankie with a big fresh mug of hot tea. Chai, please, in a 16oz mug! mmmmm tea.

Last week I posted a 13 item list that someone took the time to respond to with their own answers -- which is very cool: I hope more people do that -- No pressure, but it's fun to get a community feel over here -- besides I am insatiably curious bout stuff. =)
If you've noticed traffic on the EJ-list has slowed considerably -- if there's 10 posts a day that's a busy day... and at least one of the posts will be "Hey, is my mail program broken?.." This is keeping within the stated parameters of the list rules, of course: still -- I miss the cheeky responses and the banter over there.
I've been thinking about changing Templates again -- one that has the "recent posts" by title feature. Just that it would make the blog easier to navigate around... hyperlink to different references.
Not that this is in need of a Concordance!
Or that I'm making it up as I go -- more a thing of discovering what sort of tools make building a house more satisfying.
wow. mediocre writing. sorry.

ev.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
*today's word from VocabVitamin.com:
vertiginous (adjective) [vahr·TIJ·ah·nahs]

1. turning round; whirling; revolving; 'vertiginous motion': "There is no way you are getting me into that evil, nauseating, vertiginous amusement ride."

2. affected with vertigo; giddy; dizzy

3. tending to cause vertigo; 'a vertiginous climb up the face of the cliff'

4. inclined to change frequently or suddenly; unstable

adverb form: vertiginously noun form: vertiginousness

Origin:Approximately 1608; borrowed from French, 'vertigineux'; from Latin, 'vertiginosus': suffering from dizziness, from 'vertigo': vertigo (genitive 'vertiginis'), from 'vertere': to turn.

Liberals going to Canada

2004-11-29T13:36:00.000-05:00

CANADA BUSY SENDING BACK BUSH-DODGERS
by Joe Blundo

The flood of American liberals sneaking across the border into Canada has intensified in the past week, sparking calls for increased patrols to stop the illegal immigration. The re-election of President Bush is prompting the exodus among left-leaning citizens who fear they'll soon be required to hunt, pray and agree with Bill O'Reilly. Canadian border farmers say it's not uncommon to see dozens of sociology professors, animal-rights activists and Unitarians crossing their fields at night.

"I went out to milk the cows the other day, and there was a Hollywood Producer huddled in the barn," said Manitoba farmer Red Greenfield, whose acreage borders North Dakota. The producer was cold, exhausted and hungry. "He asked me if I could spare a latte and some free-range chicken. When I said I didn't have any, he left. Didn't even get a chance to show him my
screenplay, eh?"

In an effort to stop the illegal aliens, Greenfield erected higher fences, But the liberals scaled them. So he tried installing speakers that blare Rush Limbaugh across the fields. "Not real effective," he said. "The liberals still got through, and Rush annoyed the cows so much they wouldn't give milk."

Officials are particularly concerned about smugglers who meet liberals near The Canadian border, pack them into Volvo station wagons, drive them across the border and leave them to fend for themselves. "A lot of these people are not prepared for rugged conditions," an Ontario border patrolman said. "I found one carload without a drop of drinking water. They did have a nice little Napa Valley cabernet, though."

When liberals are caught, they're sent back across the border, often wailing loudly that they fear retribution from conservatives. Rumors have been circulating about the Bush administration establishing re-education camps in which liberals will be forced to drink domestic beer and watch NASCAR.

In the days since the election, liberals have turned to sometimes-ingenious ways of crossing the border. Some have taken to posing as senior citizens on bus trips to buy cheap Canadian prescription drugs. After catching a half-dozen young vegans disguised in powdered wigs, Canadian immigration authorities began stopping buses and quizzing the supposed senior-citizen
passengers. "If they can't identify the accordion player on The Lawrence Welk Show, we get suspicious about their age," an official said. Canadian citizens have complained that the illegal immigrants are creating an organic-broccoli shortage and renting all the good Susan Sarandon movies.

"I feel sorry for American liberals, but the Canadian economy just can't support them," an Ottawa resident said. "How many art-history majors does one country need?" In an effort to ease tensions between the United States and Canada, Vice President Dick Cheney met with the Canadian ambassador and pledged that the administration would take steps to reassure liberals, a source close to Cheney said.

"We're going to have some Peter, Paul & Mary concerts. And we might put some endangered species on postage stamps. The president is determined to reach out."

Constant Readers:

2004-11-29T01:30:00.000-05:00

read your comments on the blog today -- and for some reason I'm having problems accessing the comments screen to reply. I keep getting an "Internal Server Error" message for Blogger..?
Must be a heavy blog day! lol.
Don't worry about warnings, Kathy -- I like being surprised in the safety of my desk chair via computer access =). Must be mah old age loosening me up!

Isn't Don Maquis great?! I think most of what he wrote nearly a century ago is still valid -- if not more so. The style of writing has changed -- the content insights are still razor sharp. Kudos to the guy who built and stocked his website.

as for adding Val to the blog as contributor -- I've known him for lifetimes even though we've never met IRL. I'm so glad to have him around: even when his opinions are hemorrhoidal. Maybe especially then. It is good to not be too comfortable and insulated in our own opinions, especially when there are forums like this to discuss issues that crawl up our bungs.
even if it's a blog no bigger than a coffee klatch. *-)

Not too much of a downer, are you, Val?
death, crime and rape. at least ya lightened up with a love song outta Texas.

I read an interesting book last month for my book discussion panel, the winner of our Valley wide book read event: "The Kite Runner". Interesting for it's lyrical (and often brutal) look at Afghanistan before and after the Russians moved in, but especially interesting for the threads of moral courage and living with the impact of inaction against wrongs. It is not a "fun" read, but it is an enlightening and thought provoking one. Amir's father holds that all sins are crimes of theft. I'd never considered that before -- but there is certainly the ring of profound truth to it.

When it comes down to it, all crimes are crimes of theft.
This includes crimes of vandalism, which are merely jealousy / anger being acted on to demean the possessor of property, devalue possessions the vandal does not have or cannot condone.
So PETA activists throw red paint on women in fur coats.
and jealous pimples key scrape the finish on nice cars because it reminds them they are stuck with a piece of crap, themselves. Faulty / infantile logic, "Why should you have something I don't?" It is a personal, anonymous act by a small minded individual to bring someone else down to a level where that small person holds a power to hurt the bigger person.
It is counting coups, on a subliminal level.
It is theft of peace of mind, as well as ruination of book value -- the former being far more influential with it's ripple effect through society than the latter.

Some theft is, as you say -- the redistribution of goods by professional opportunists.
A family business.
and then there is the theft perpetrated on a woman -- or a man -- called rape.

This is the most heinous, inexcusable act that can be done, the most PERSONAL crime there is. I know something of the way your mind works, my dear friend -- and I also know that many of the things you touch on in your essay here are nuclear radiating hot buttons for people -- women in particular. Your logic is cool and reasonable. It is also self defeating. This is not an area that lends itself to cool logic.

I am thinking of this from the vantage of male-male rape, as well as the "usual" form; both are ugly, tho' forgive me if I say for a woman it is just ever so slightly more, since it can sometimes lead to a compoundingly (insult to injury!) unwanted pregnancy.
A man who rapes is not a man who can be conditioned to live within the contract of society. He is unwelcome, except perhaps as a deployable tool for intimidation and punishment in the hands of a ruthless Despot.
yeah. "I'm here from the government, Baby -- drop your panties, and I dig it the more you scream."
To say that every man has a breaking point insults men and women.
Rape cannot be romanticized: to say a woman is irresistibly beautiful, sexy, and provocative and somehow invites rape specifically and dangerously insults women, and feeds the unhealthy fantasy of obsession ("I can MAKE her love me") at best -- is as Unromantic a possibility; an act of jaded, greedy consuming vandalism -- at worst.
you finished your overview with this observation:
" In each case, they may be seen as an amplified version of normal desires, combined with a lack of self-control, that results in the crime."
That sounds like a momentary slip up, an "oops" that can be forgiven, like an involuntary reflex action that knocks the glass over. A sneeze you couldn't turn your head or catch in time.
A man who cannot be stopped by "no", is not worthy of being called a man. His existence is an insult to animals.
Man rapes. Animals do not.
For the victim, rape is the ultimate dehumanizing devaluation; there are no levels to it, it is an act of theft for which there are no reparations possible. EVER.
In ancient times there was one punishment for rape. Death.
They knew it was a righteous thinning of the herd.

ev.

The Criminal Mind

2004-11-28T10:41:00.000-05:00

Most crimes are things I cannot do, but some crimes are things I cannot even understand.

For example.

I can understand when someone steals something they desire. A car perhaps. They see it, they want it, they can’t afford to buy it, so they take it. I understand that.

Obviously I don’t agree with it, but at least I understand it. There is a logical sequitur to explain the action.

Consider rape. I would not rape a woman. But I can at least understand it. That is to say I can understand the motivational mechanisms on some level. It is unbridled lust for some men. They see a beautiful woman and they want her. She doesn’t give willingly, so they rape her. They want something they cannot have – according to the rules, so they break the rules and simply take what they want. It is a matter of not being able to control one’s desire. It is a crime, but at least there is a simple arithmetic to it. Every man has a breaking point where his desire may overload his self discipline or his common sense. Some men’s breaking points are lower than others. Also, some women are more desirable than others. In a situation where you have a very beautiful, sexy, provocative women in the company of a man with strong sexual desires, low self control, and in a situation of no witnesses, then most of the social barriers to this crime are removed and the likelihood of it happening is increased.

Then there is another type of rapist who will rape as an expression of power over another person. Men are often conditioned to think of women as a sort of higher level of human. A wondrous, beautiful object of desire. They are on a pedestal as objects of beauty and refinement. To rape such a woman might be an expression of power over that person. It would make that kind of man feel powerful. There is an arithmetic to that as well.

Also, there is the type of man that hates all women, and might rape as an expression of that hate and disgust. This too is at least a logical crime.

Don’t get me wrong, I cannot ever condone any of this behavior, I am merely trying to work out the mechanism of motivations, and so far there seems like a logical causality. In each case, they may be seen as an amplified version of normal desires, combined with a lack of self-control, that results in the crime.

But then there are some crimes that I simply don’t understand.

There are some cases where the math doesn’t add up for me. For example. People who vandalize a nice car. A teenager is walking through a parking lot. Suddenly he sees a beautiful Ferrari parked there, and for some reason, he feels motivated to run his key down the side of it to destroy the paint job. Or he stabs the tires. Keying the car has happened to me several times when I have owned nice cars.

I must confess, I truly don’t understand the motivation behind this action. It’s not a normal impulse that is larger than normal combined with a lack of self control to keep it in check. It is simply illogical. It makes no sense. If the teenager wants that car, how does destroying it get it for him?

Maybe this is similar to Saddam Hussein’s ‘Scorched Earth’ policy. The general consensus was that when he was pulling his forced out of Kuwait, he ordered the oil fields destroyed because if he couldn’t have them, then no one should. But that too, is illogical. To me, the only logical reason for doing that would be that Kuwait is a competitor for oil production. If he destroys the Kuwaiti ability to produce oil, then the market supply goes down forcing the price to go up, and Iraq would benefit. It’s reprehensible, of course, but at least there would be a LOGIC to it.

But keying a nice car has no logic to it that I can see. Damaging someone else’s car doesn’t get it for you. It doesn’t improve your car, or your position in any possible way to even the slightest degree. It is illogical on every level. It is non-sequitur.

The criminal mind. Maybe there is a similar twist to all criminal minds that could be detected with a test of some sort. Maybe there is a thread of reasoning or self-control that is demonstrably different from the mind of a law abiding person. And if detected early, say at a young enough age before the crimes are committed…. fixed?

Imagine the moral and ethical quagmire that would lead us to. Interesting thing to ponder for a moment or two, though.

Ahh but then, I am from Canada. I was brought up differently. There, the goal is to create rules that are logical and make sense and serve the best interests of society, then make sure everyone follows those rules. There, bad guys are, well, BAD guys. In Canada, no one wants to be the BAD guy.

But here, the culture is literally different. Here in the US, the bad guys are often glorified as heroes. They are often portrayed as the freedom-fighting individualists struggling against the system that keeps them down. Movie after movie idolizes the bad guy. The good guys are made to seem dorkish and naive and the bad guys are made to seem cool and in-the-know. Gangsta rap rappers. Mafia gangsters. Violence translates to strength, and that strength is attractive to people. Film after film. TV show after TV show. The girls seem to be drawn to the bad guy. Somehow we are painting them in some desirable color.

I remember seeing the movie “The people under the stairs”. It was a largely black audience in the theater, and every time one of the black people on the screen killed a white person on the screen, they cheered. It was unnerving. My friend and I were ended up being the only two white people in the audience. It was difficult walking out of that theater seeing the bloodlust in the eyes of everyone around us.

But there was also a less blatant series of cultural clues. For instance, the illegal activity of breaking and entering was portrayed as a legitimate business/vocation for a black person to go into. The son stepped into the footsteps of the father in this as if it were a family business. I was fascinated that it was portrayed as a profession rather than a crime. The risk of going to jail was shown as an occupational hazard of that field, rather than justice for a crime committed.

It was so twisted around, I thought maybe the criminal mind processes differently.

Or maybe this is simply what the culture here has devolved into.

Any thoughts?

Val

toujours gai, wotthehell...

2004-11-28T03:43:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned "archy and mehitabel" a few times...

and it seems there are people who will click to check a site out, but most folks don't.

I will tell you right now I always, ALWAYS click on the links in emails from friends: today I learned of the existence of the giant red headed centipede* and I've been ...lol. enlightened and mildly freaked out over it those babies are 1.) poisonous and 2.) get to be from 6 1/2 to 8 inches long -- holy Peterbilt!! And I thought being surprised by the unexpected mouse was a reason to turn inside out. But -- I don't have time constraints like most adults; I am free to take all the time I want to read up on whatever the hell I feel like pursuing -- the trade-off being that's the sum of my life right now. I read and I write. The rest is maintenance.

Anyway -- archy and mehitabel. I was reading some of my favorite poems, getting the dust of serious poets out of my nose, and as usual I opened wide for a feast of Don Marquis warm wit -- from light to scathing, it's poetic comfort food.

I've had "the song of mehitabel" going through my head for hours now. (Could be worse -- I could have caught and earworm from Supermarket muzak -- those can last for days.)

here are the lines of the poems ostensibly from mehitabel (in all her feline splendor) herself:

i have had my ups and downs
but wotthehell wotthehell
yesterday sceptres and crowns
fried oysters and velvet gowns
and today i herd with bums
but wotthehell wotthehell
i wake the world from sleep
as i caper and sing and leap
when i sing my wild free tune
wotthehell wotthehell
under the blear eyed moon
i am pelted with cast off shoon
but wotthehell wotthehell

do you think that i would change
my present freedom to range
for a castle or moated grange
wotthehell wotthehell
cage me and i d go frantic
my life is so romantic
capricious and corybantic
and i m toujours gai toujours gai

i know that i am bound
for a journey down the sound
in the midst of a refuse mound
but wotthehell wotthehell
oh i should worry and fret
death and i will coquette
there s a dance in the old dame yet
toujours gai toujours gai

i once was an innocent kit
wotthehell wotthehell
with a ribbon my neck to fit
and bells tied onto it
o wotthehell wotthehell
but a maltese cat came by
with a come hither look in his eye
and a song that soared to the sky
and wotthehell wotthehell
and i followed adown the street
the pad of his rhythmical feet
o permit me again to repeat
wotthehell wotthehell

my youth i shall never forget
but there s nothing i really regret
wotthehell wotthehell
there s a dance in the old dame yet
toujours gai toujours gai

the things that i had not ought to
i do because i ve gotto
wotthehell wotthehell
and i end with my favorite motto
toujours gai toujours gai

and as archy finishes up:

boss sometimes i think
that our friend mehitabel
is a trifle too gay

This, however, is my favorite of the archy poems -- they're all very worthwhile and if you have the time check them out: look for the books if you feel particularly moved to do so. But this...THIS is why I have such affection for archy, and deep esteem for Don Marquis as a poet. Just this one poem would be a fine thing to leave as a legacy, I think.

the lesson of the moth
By Don Marquis, in "archy and mehitabel," 1927

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy

here's the link to the page that has a synopsis of the characters:

http://www.donmarquis.com/archy/index.html

if you scroll down there's direct links to various poems.

Happy Sunday,

ev.

* http://www.uark.edu/depts/entomolo/museum/sheros.html

Texas

2004-11-27T13:48:00.000-05:00

ev, let me say a little about Texas.
First, It's a big place. It takes two long days of driving to get across it side to side or top to bottom. It is so big it has entirely different climates in different parts of the state. East Texas has tall trees and forests like Arkansas. West Texas has deserts and mountains. South Texas has palm trees and beaches for a thousand miles or so on the gulf coast. North Texas has high tech, and cosmopolitan urban life. San Antonio has the romance of the Riverwalk, the panhandle has fields and canyons stretching as far as the eye can see from a high place.

You live in Connecticut. We have ranches here that are bigger than that state. Some are well over a million acres. The King Ranch is probably the size of New York state or so.... ;-)

And the sky here seems to be different than other skies I have lived with. It seems more beautiful somehow. Maybe it has something to do with the speed that higher clouds move, or the layers of different temperatures and movements at different speeds for different heights, but whatever causes it, the end result is sunsets the like of which I have rarely seen elsewhere. And I spent many years living elsewhere.
This is the first place I have ever had the sense that the sky is like God's painting. And every few minutes, he puts his finger in and stirs it a bit to create an entirely new picture.

I have had in mind a song I am writing slowly over the course of the last 5 years. That song is called "Under a Texas Sky". It's about a man, born and raised in Texas, who leaves to pursue his career elsewhere. He travels the world and lives in many places, and many of them are beautiful and interesting, but often his heart cries to be home. In the end, he knows he is dying, and he wants to spend his last days at home back in Texas.
"I've been all over, but before I die,
I want to live my last days under a Texas sky"

It is romantic. It is historic. It is enchanting. It is unlike any other place on Earth. It is bigger than life.

But Texas is more than just big. It is a state of mind. and it's a positive state of mind. It is the feeling of freedom. It is the notion that anything is possible. Just make it big enough and bold enough, and it will work! It's that kind of positivism.

And the people here are friendly and warm. They have the generosity that comes from a feeling of abundance. When you have lots, you don't begrudge giving some to others who need it. Texans are a friendly and generous people - if a little rough around the edges. Yet, I am always surprised when I see examples of refined cuture here. Plays, and Symphony concerts, and Broadway shows. It's all here, despite what you may think. Texas has everything from the deserts of the far west to Nasa and Houston's Mission Control at the Johnson Space Center.

Here, in north Texas, in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area where I live, there are people from all over. This seems to be where people come when they move to Texas from somewhere else. Still, once they come here, they may not wear a cowboy hat or speak with a Texas drawl, but they do tend to adopt the attitude of being friendly and warm and open.

Texans have no secrets. They are ashamed of nothing. They will show you exactly who they are, and if you accept them, you've got a friend, because chances are, they will accept you.
It's a wonderful place in many ways, and I'm glad I found my way to this place 9 years ago. Now it's home.

C'mon down when you're ready, ev. As big as it is, I think it is plenty big enough to handle one more.

Val

Feedback and The State of Fire

2004-11-27T05:13:00.000-05:00

friend sent this through email:
"My heart aches after hearing that. I am so sorry and yet I don't begin to know what to say. Just when you start having self doubts, remember the people who don't even know you other than online who support and greatly appreciate you. I may be naive but I don't feel we have any ulterior motives for telling you this. To me you are very talented and your writing touches me. Period. Hope your holiday was nice - I'm almost afraid to ask how you get along with your family at this point."

As I said -- I knew it would be painful to read. But you read it -- and I am grateful; you have no idea how vital it is to get it out and over with. There's a reason psycho therapy is the talking cure. Prayers, Affirmations, Mantras are spoken and so also I gave confession and testament -- the trembling flame gathers strength Speaking What Is Known burning out all corruption as it rushes through the soul: and then it is done, and well said, and grace for a moment kisses the forehead of sinner and sinned against... before siding irrevocably and lovingly with the sinned against. And that is how the truth sets you free. I know you hurt, but I also know there is literally nothing more horrible I can tell you; and look -- we are both alive and the sun's coming up and there's a future out there somewhere.. as another good soul recently said:

"you don't want to be controlled by your past and while you don't need to relive it, you need to understand how it affects you and affects your motives and actions in your present and future..."

It's been an amazing transformation for me: even though it's a limited group reading (here), I feel like I've gotten out from under a crushing weight. Nightmares are worse with the lights off. Unspoken fear is what keeps you down, silent and small. It seems ridiculous now to have felt ...well...pithed comes to mind. As if the unsaid words held me pinned through the motor responses on a dissecting tray wide open and defenseless, as good as dead, mostly dead..but still somewhat alive. This is how I feel around family members. Not all of them. Just the ones who bring up him. With normal-conversation-expectations on my part; and then they get huffy when I leave the room to vomit. You know -- little things like that.

I love my family from a distance. I might love them more from... say... Texas. yeah. That would be a nice distance.
utterly ironic. I remember decrying up and down at my in-laws one Christmas that I would Nevah evah traipse into...Texas. ye gods! TEXAS! The land of pick up trucks and psycho rah-rah red neck shit-kicking beer bellied back of beyond hick...Texans. and their boyfriends.

Of course I am kidding.

I meant, their husbands.

Away in Texas

It's farther than I've ever been,
more exotic than I've ever seen;
it's another country, another world;
it's magic haunts my very dreams...

alas I'm a Yankee gal, been about as south
as New Jersey (stayed in the car); but lately
my mind is away in Texas -- an inevitable beckon
from a distant star ( can a state call your name?..)

I know there's dust, and snakes, and heat;
and my nightmares will find the new address:
but I think if I were down there with you
my soul, mind, and heart might find some rest.
~

I was counting it up and it's official -- I prefer Texans two to one over anyone else I know, in all other states combined.

ev.

blog with a buddy and poetry-phlegmantics

2004-11-27T01:15:00.000-05:00

First, thanks. Good to have you around. Welcome Seer.
List people will recognize Val as...well, there really is only one Val.
I call him Seer for a buncha reasons. If it doesn't instantly click with you -- whatthehell.

Now...
I'm nosing around other poetry sites from MTC: which sadly seemed to be more of a cliquey love fest than a place to find sincere criticism for poetry; stumbled on a forum called "Poetry X" which seems to be a clique of serious poets who are eager for sincere constructive criticism. So it seems. This may not be a gig I am suited for: I think poetry should be dusted with magic and wonder, cut from crystal laughter, the inspiration globbed 'n' smelted in a furnace of tears and joy; and these Poets are oh-so...dire and earnest. hoo-boy. I may have fallen into a Survivalist Nest of Poetry-Nazis. Oh sure, I'm chuckling with ya -- but I keep thinking of that Brendan Fraser movie where he played the lone Jewboy at Hilter Youth Prep School, and I am Pangalactically GLAD we beta testing socio-clasts are just connected by the web and most of the profiles I clicked a peek at are British / Irish / Canadian. I suppose it's a quirk, but Midwestern Men who write serious poetry seem to go hand in hand with other forms of Cannibalism in my mind.

later,
ev.

Helping a friend

2004-11-26T23:22:00.000-05:00

Last night, a friend's mother passed away.
Yet somehow, she had the presence of mind and sense of politeness to send me a quick note to let me know not to expect a reply to a previous note for a few days. How thoughtful in her moment of grief.

I wanted to tell her something to comfort her in this moment. To give her my insights into this. It occurred to me when thinking of something to post here for you, ev, that these words might somehow be useful to others if I shared them around a little bit. We are relatively new friends. I don't know a lot about her, but yet I thought perhaps these words might apply anyhow, since they apply to a good many people.

Below is part of the note I sent her:
~~

Remember that while your mother has moved on to the next phase of her existence, this also represents a change in yours.
It is the crises we encounter that help form our lives. It is our responses to these crises that define who we are. You are not merely being tested by this - you are being changed and formed by it. The hottest fires forge the hardest steel. - not that I want you to become hard. Use this experience, not to make you 'hard', but to make you resilient.

Think about this...
Some people think they are grown up simply because they have reached the age of 18, because that means they are old enough to join the army or vote. Some think they are grown up when they are married. Some think they are grown up when they have children of their own - because that means they now have responsibility for other people and must look out after them.

But then some people feel they are not really truly grown up until their parents pass away. Because that's when they finally realize that their safety net is gone. Up until that point, all through our lives, most of us think somewhere in the back of our minds that if we fail, we can always go back home to Mom and Dad. Or one or the other. It is, for many, a safety net that gives us the confidence to swing on the trapezes of life. To take the chances and risk the slings and arrows of the outrageous fortunes of life. No matter what happens, Mom was there somewhere in the background providing an escape route. If the marriage doesn't work out, if the job failed - or the entire career failed, if you got into trouble, if you were in an abusive relationship, if you were hurt or confused, or sick - there was an out. A safe haven.

So what does it mean when the safe haven is gone? It means that we must have the strength and the confidence to be our own safety net. When we are finally able to 'work without a net', THEN we are grown-up. We take full responsibility for our lives. We are finally adult in every possible sense.

This is an important and necessary passage in our lives. It may seem a little painful and a little frightening at the moment, (as all such transitions do), but in time, we recognize it for the important and necessary lesson it was. The first day at school by yourself. The first day you left for college. The first day you left home.
All of them were passages to the next phase of growth. This is no different.
And each day that passes now, the intensity of this moment will fade and become a little more tolerable. Your strength will rise from inside a little further. You are simply becoming the confidant, strong person you were meant to be.

Life unfolds the way it was meant to. The events in our lives teach us the lessons we were meant to learn and lead us to the people in our lives. This is how friendships are earned.

One day, you will be helping someone else through this same crisis in their life, and perhaps you will be able to look back on this time and know just what to say.

Val

I'm here

2004-11-26T22:57:00.000-05:00

ev, you have invited me to post here hoping to make this series of monologs into a conversation.
I doubt I'll be able to give it the attention and time that you do, but thanks for the invitation.

And yes I am real. No I am not a manifestation of your imagination. At least I don't think so.
On the other hand, how would I know?
If I looked for gaps in my world to indicate that your attention was elsewhere, I would have to be awake and aware during that lapse in order to sense it - in which case it wouldn't be a lapse. It would then contradict the definition of a projected character.

Well then, at least as far as I know, I exist.

...but I doubt existentialism was on the menu for tonight, so I'll just hang up my coat and give you another post.

vjs

Goals

2004-11-26T15:08:00.000-05:00

V asked: " what other goal do you have other than an honest response?"

I've been thinking about that question for a few days, now.
I live with .. impediments to normalcy -- or what I perceive as normal (seen it, waved at it, don't mind that it pretty much ignores me) -- and I am constantly surprised when I meet people who are normal.
I wonder what goals are, to tell you the truth. My life is lived day to day.
A good day is when I write something that feels sharp and dangerous in it's honesty; but along with it I am aware of how self indulgent that is. If pleasing myself is the goal -- why bother putting it out here? I am not looking for validation, am I? Nope. That ain't gonna happen. but yet I am looking for something, so I suppose an honest response would be the best and most noble of gifts I can hope for. I send out honesty maybe I can merit an honest return. Of course -- who's to say what anyone reading this is willing to give, or can give back? What I'm creating here is a niche, a toe hold in the sheer cliff face of indifference the world has always presented to me. I
hope it will be of use to someone else. Without upsetting people too much.

(bitter laugh); little late for that, I guess....

I spend most of my life saying very little, interacting the least amount I can with other people -- because I hate having to apologize for upsetting them. I always do upset someone, that's a given certainty. When I was younger -- I flaunted it, I didn't care who I disturbed, and I probably enjoyed other people's discomfort: shake 'em up, rattle the cage... because (of course) if I couldn't be accepted, at least I wasn't ignored. Is that reason enough to make messes everywhere you go? Ironically if I'd been confronted with that earlier I wouldn't have continued for as long as I did.
Shit. I wouldn't have gotten married.

over in the comments, V just left this note (discussing the 15 year old blogger who writes http://teendorkqueen.blogspot.com/ ) Typically genius V:

"Ah, but what is fifteen anyway?
It's only the number of years a person has been alive in THIS incarnation.
If you are writing words or creating music or painting, and your art reaches
down to touch your inner soul - well, THAT inner soul may be very old indeed

It is at that level that we hold our secret history in safekeeping. We do
not access that library in day-to-day conscious knowledge.
Art is the key that opens that lock.
It is the only thing that reaches deep enough."

V is the only man I have ever gotten to know who has not 1) run the hell away from my complicated, eviscerating, Bizarro Land forays into human contact, 2) when he opens his mouth -- or as is the case, types something -- the number of dead on effing BRILLIANT observations he shares has the combined effect of Aspirin and a back rub on my sick-of-myself treading water lack of focus.
Remember a few years back -- there were a series of books that collected the correspondence of Griffin and Sabine? Except they were both the creation of one writer. I used to think V was probably the better half of my disturbed mind leaking into reality... but I think I am actually beginning to believe V is a real human being who happens to be 1700 miles away but comfortably, permanently in residence through every level of what I know: how I think, feel and breathe. No adjustments necessary -- he just fits.
I've learned a lot from him in the short year and a half we've been corresponding.
He's a damn gyroscope Q.E.D. of balance!
I've upset him plenty of times -- but he's got inner reserves.
Thank god he pops his head in. We all need a V.. .
ok, maybe just me.

ev.

Didn't mean to abandon you...

2004-11-26T05:21:00.000-05:00

spent the night at Poetry X site, reading and critiquing member's poems.
if any of them follow the link and come here -- the poems are at the bottom
-- work your way up to "advanced confessional" k? lol.
i hope we all had a good holiday.
later,
ev.

Re: sex -- and caveat...

2004-11-25T01:31:00.000-05:00

Thank you for your responses:

I don't know who reads this site of yours. I don't think your blog sites
cares - so not limits there really. At least not that I know of.
I think it's more about what you are comfortable with people/anyone reading.
That didn't help, I'm sure. Ha. ~L

I would say post according to your own conscious, ev.
Pretending to be someone other than yourself, (outside of acting), has
little value.
After all, what other goal do you have other than an honest response? ~ V

ev-while talk about sex is not something I am most comfortable with I would
rather you write what you want. I may be uncomfortable but it wouldn't
offend me. ~ K
`````````````````````````````````````````````````
Interesting Freudian slip, Val -- posting according to my consciousness, or
conscience? One implies the un-filtered flow -- the other -- an editor.

I think I need to bleed off some of the pressure on my stream of
consciousness.
I am not looking for sympathy or pity. On the one hand I feel that what you
are about to read adds to the weight of the burdens you will carry for the
rest of your days; to know this has happened to someone who's voice has a small residence in your head, invited in for friendship and amusement...
This is the foundation of who I am; and it is not the least bit amusing.
For that -- Mea Culpa.
But this is the truth of my life. It has been slowly processed for 44 years,
and here it is.

ev.

Most Days

2004-11-25T01:11:00.000-05:00

I am having one of those days
where I think nothing I can
do, will ever do, have ever
done is worth while.
I'm not great. There are
writers, artists, musicians
I consider great -- but I am not
one of them. No where NEAR
one of them. So that must mean
I may just rate somewhere around,
"ok". okay. OK??!
Just...great.
~ev

It would be easy to fall into a blacker mood, to give in to a complete breakdown of confidence and self esteem. It's easier because it's what I normally do, the default.
I found a blog yesterday by someone who might have been me 12 years ago -- EXCEPT; she's smarter, she's a better writer, she has two children, she's part of a writing group, she wants to be published, she comes from a family of similar siblings... but other than that... LOL! I wasn't her when I was 32. It took me til last year to finally understand and accept things I had no possible control over as a child which created the adult I am today. This is who I am and I like myself. The permission to like myself is the hardest thing to grant and receive -- knowing what I know

````````````````````````````````````````````````
I recently wrote and posted this on a forum board, in answer to (a) the liberal question and (b) the conservative response to a thread that concerns itself with the upswing of parents unfit for parenting and getting arrested (for it):

(a) "I wonder if there are really more heinous acts like these now, or if we
just hear about them more, b/c they're so "newsworthy." I wonder if there
were always cases like this, or if this is a symptom of a really ailing
society...?"

(b)"Brings up an interesting question to me. Is there EVER a case where a
person should take RESPONSIBILITY for their own actions, behaviors and
choices, or are they always victims of this "downward spiraling economy" and
President Bush? There are a lot of poor people, in bad situations all over
the world that don't resort to crime."

"I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as
they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about
when they begot me; had they duly considered how much depended upon what
they were then doing...Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and
proceeded accordingly I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite
different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to
see me." ~ The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1760).

I am going to share something with you -- to tell you that messed up as the world is, it is only because the exposure of these things is more common now that it seems more heinous. There has always been stress. There has always been questionable leadership. I am sure it was black humor and not an actual outcry of blame on Bush -- how perfectly ludicrous to accuse him of victimizing offenders into their brutal "counter-attacks" acted out on whomever, whatever is available and not fighting back -- when he's a perfect foil for his own incomprehensible acts of ineptitude.

I grew up in a large Catholic, Church going, working class family. My 4 elder siblings were all enrolled in Catholic school: they were ages 12, 11, 10, and 7 when I was born in 1960. The 10 year old, a boy -- was a budding sociopath who tortured and abused stray animals for "the fun of it", and also abused me.
My abuse, which I did not even KNOW was abuse upon my person, started in my infancy and did not let up until this brother was signed into the Air Force early at 17, nearly 18 -- he was incorrigible, opportunistic, handsome: as smooth a Sociopath as ever one was.
He has one out-of-wedlock daughter that the family knows of and like the incest that was my "natural" state, disclosure of his fatherhood (and incestual-pedophilia) all came out roughly 9 years ago....
Without knowing why I despised him -- until recently talking about this was very difficult for me -- other sisters arranged to bring the two of us together for a family reunion by not telling me he would be there. When I saw him for the first time since moving out of my Mother's house (Dad had died when I was 16) I simply ran away. Yes, a 35 year old woman with a fairly above average IQ and I swallowed my spit so hard and so fast backing up and switching directions the spaces between my toes squished from it! I heard he shrugged it all off: "Yeah, I f*cked her. So what?" in a bored voice and wondered why the family was stunned into silence. This was also when I found out how far back my abuse reached... I am still ... a bit wobbily on getting my head around that, even now.

I sincerely hope the children who survive the episodes in this thread are given the unconditional love and nurturing they have thus far been denied.
As for myself -- I am ok. Most days. When I read about child abuse; add to this list the murder of 11 month old Elizabeth outside of Dallas... my days are harder.

Bad things have always happened to undeserving innocents.

`````````````````````````````````````````````
As you might guess -- it stopped the thread cold.
We live in a Victim-conscious society -- Everybody's been victimized by one thing or another. in my case, I didn't even know I was molested until I was 10, 11. I didn't know other people weren't treated like that. What could I possibly know about normal expectations and appropriate responses? I had to learn it from scratch -- in utter humiliation for being switched on sexually at a much too early age.
I think molestation is more common than un-common -- it just doesn't see the light of day discussion because it's such a touchy subject -- no pun intended.
I have seen in cases other than my own how difficult it is for the victim of sexual abuse to be accepted as a regular person in their families -- it is easier to forgive the abuser than the victim for "letting themselves" be abused. Whereas most people cannot realistically envision themselves capable of becoming a baby rapist..? That's so out of the realm of reality they can forgive..?
I don't get it either, to tell you the truth.
But I do understand that since abuse could possibly become a reality for anyone -- it is far harder to think and accept that it happened without being... asked for. To protect themselves; people distance themselves from the victim.
There is quantitive acceptance... maybe.
If you shut up and get over it.

I think about it this way:
Most people inhabit their own little System where they are the Sun and everyone else to various degrees orbit around them. It is a miracle -- worthy of the founding of new religions -- that more of what COULD happen doesn't. Your Universe wanders over and brushes up against the magnetic pull of Mine. How is it we are not devastated and exploded just by eye contact?... "Hello" doesn't send shockwaves of the Genesis Effect re-writing your DNA every time you say it or hear it said?...
On the one hand I suppose we are fortunate the body has needs that must be attended to otherwise being lost in contemplation performing our kitty-yoga-of-the-mind postures would never end the cycle of inquiring-within the depths of our own digestive processes.
I think the key is -- Noblesse Oblige. The Namasté factor.
We come to this life to serve; and through service we grow in all ways: treating each other better is in fact honoring ourselves by recognizing the specialness and quantitive quality of EVERYONE.
Balance is the key to the human being experience, with enough roguish behavior from comets and satellites so you can appreciate the calm in the chaos.
I'm not all that Sunny -- but I've graduated to thinking I am a pretty big "planet ev".

most days...

Templates...

2004-11-23T15:40:00.000-05:00

This seems to be the most stripped down basic look Blogger.com has to offer.
As much as I do love color... I prefer to have my words not compete against graphics for creating visuals =).

night operatives

2004-11-23T03:20:00.000-05:00

a friend sent me an exerpt from a book her hub is reading:

"Only in very recent times have medical scientists identified the hormonal
secretion of the pineal gland. It was isolated in 1968, and became known as
melatonin, which means 'night-worker' (from the Greek melos = black, and
tosos = labour) because people with high melatonin output react strongly to
sunlight which affects their mental capability. By virtue of this, they are
night operatives, and melatonin is called the 'hormone of darkness', being
produced only at night or in the dark. (Blind people produce above average
melatonin, which heightens their senses other than sight.) Exposure to an
excess of natural light makes the pineal gland smaller and lessens spiritual
awareness, whereas darkness and high pineal activity enhance the keen
intuitive knowledge of the subtle mind, while reducing the stress factor."

hmmmm.
I've always been a night person.
More to the point, I prefer dark rooms and my own company.
I need to brace myself for sunshine.
hehehe.
the hormone of darkness... sounds like a gothic porn novel.
oh, speaking of porn...
I have been wondering just how much sex to put into the mix, here.
The memory of M was not too racy, just a bit of nostalgia: I don't know
what would be the limit of what I want to share, or what is allowable
out here in public. I could use some feedback...

ev.

all wired up

2004-11-23T03:12:00.000-05:00

There are people who can live with the neighbors who surround them
But I would not CHOSE to deal with these lunatics.
AND because I have the means to seek like minded
neighbors and friends online,
I can ignore the people in my back yard.
heck --
I can ignore the people under my roof,
I can ignore the man who shares my bed
I can ignore the invitations of my family members
to come away from the computer and be...multidimensional.
(But -- hey -- if I spend more time with PSP...
I'll send them an animated card! hehe.)

I am so connected to my virtual neighborhood
so authorative and master of my domain
it makes Real Life feel Catholic in comparison.
Living the surreal, serial life
with a pass into anywhere -- either for free
or what you will pay... you are as classy as your
writing skills demonstrate:
in short
on-line
you can be what you aint
freed of the weight, the ties, the inferiority
piled on your shoulders by human society.
*sigh*
I suppose the shift to words and thoughts being truly meritorious
lifts the less than physically perfect from the last row of the chorus.
It's a magickal world; these pages on which we connect
where hours pass like minutes...
days fall through the loops of weeks..
And when I uproot from the desk chair and need to interface
in the outer world..that alien, "other" place
I squint with eyes unused to sunlight, complaining all the while.
My husband laughs at my grumbling, is it my discomfort that makes him smile?
He opens the car door for me to join him, as we get the day on track,
and says "It's nice to see you out and about. I'm glad that you've come back."
Yeah, there is a real problem to chose between the two
I love my "family by choice" -- the other can go...
uh.... but once in a while when I blink and look up
I can't help but feel
there's a pretty cool world out there too
ummmm but which one is more real?
~
ev.

Stolen From My Twin.

2004-11-23T03:10:00.000-05:00

which was the title of this list I snagged from Gina over at the Blog, I Am
Not the Crazy -- an intelligent and well written excursion worth the trip.
I re-wrote it here and there -- and all the answers are mine....

Thirteen random things I like:
01. guitars.
02. tea.
03. saddle shoes.
04. writing.
05. reading.
06. learning things.
07. Music and music.
08. animals.
09. restaurants.
10. cartoons.
11. Intelligent conversation.
12. Computer access.
13. a warm blankie.

Twelve books / authors:
01. The Phantom Tollbooth.
02. The Fairytales of Oscar Wilde.
03. The Fifth Sacred Thing.
04. Diana Gabaldon.
05. Jasper Fforde
06. Welcome to the Monkey House.
07. Laurell K. Hamilton.
08. Peter Pan.
09. Douglas Adams.
10. Harlan Ellison.
11. Mercedes Lackey.
12. Jane Austen.

Eleven movies:
01. Harold and Maude.
02. The Producers.
03. M*A*S*H.
04. The Princess Bride.
05. Singin' In the Rain.
06. Star Trek IV.
07. Casablanca
08. Educating Rita
09. Starman
10. Monty Python and the Holy Grail
11. Bull Durham

Ten shows I watch(ed):
01. The West Wing.
02. CSI.
03. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
04. M*A*S*H.
05. Star Trek (all incarnations)
06. X-Files.
07. Quantum Leap.
08. Sliders (hmm is there a pattern here?)
09. Animaniacs.
10. The Monkees.

Nine places I would like to visit:
01. Austin.
02. New Orleans
03. Japan
04. India
05. Alaska
06. Seattle
07. Ireland
08. London
09. Paris

Eight Favorite foods/drinks:
01. Moxie!
02. Hotdogs
03. Vegetarian pizza
04. Iced Mint Tea
05. Greek Food
06. eggplant in anything
07. tomatoes
08. and tea, of course

Seven things that annoy me:
01. Drunks.
02. stupidity
03. cruelty / abuse
04. eXtreme Sports
05. brats (of any age)
06. gossip
07. writer's block

Six things you wouldn't think if you saw me:
01. I think about sex constantly (well that fixes that, huh?)
02. I'm not a mother.
03. I'm married.
04. I have a sense of humor.
05. I am a horrible housekeeper.
06. I'm shy.

Five things about me...physically:
01. given the time of day I am either 5'9" or 5'10"
02. big brown eyes.
03. dark chestnut hair past my shoulders.
04. glasses / very nearsighted.
05. I'm diabetic.

Four things I touch everyday:
01. Computer keyboard.
02. my Husband.
03. my hair.
04. a blood drop to a test strip.

Three quirks:
01. I have to be funny.
02. I love cats even though I am allergic to them.
03. Contrariness.

Two things I wear every day:
01. spectacles
02. an oversized t shirt

One word/phrase I'd like to use in everyday conversation, but don't:

01. "Who licensed you for breeding?"

ev.

the ev-olution of VG

2004-11-22T03:20:00.000-05:00

damn, I told myself I'd be in bed 2 hours ago.
I am always breaking promises to myself.
VG is me.
Jeen Lilly is me.
but they are both more -- and less than, me.
and it seems I have literally separated all three...
lol.
You're never alone with a...
bad joke.
I'm not schizophrenic and neither am I.
it's as if my Ego, Id, and Super-ego
were playing hide and seek...

RE: The Country As I See It

2004-11-22T03:15:00.000-05:00

ev's alter ego here =)...

I joined a political discussion group today -- Our Voices over at MSN groups..
I spent a few... actually the better part of the day reading and writing a few posts. here's one -- Just finished up with the poem at the bottom...

The Country As I See It -- response...

in a typed forum, sarcasm often is missed -- particularly by those with
double vision in one eye to make up for the blindness in the other.

I live in a depressed factory town -- the factory shut down 30 years ago,
job opportunities are scarce, and land was cheap -- so developers built
homes and a different strata moved in. That is the short version. What I
have observed in years past is that no one is raising their children around
here -- both parents work so that the values system that IS observable by
the kids is "money is what's important."
These brats know the prices of everything -- and the value of NOTHING.
Their ideas of interaction with family members and neighbors have been
gleaned from entertainments provided by television and Britney Spears -- if
you're lucky and don't have deth-(sic)-metal-rap thrusting through the walls
to b*tch slap you as you get a cuppa in the kitchen!
what dips my cookies is the lack of genuine nurturing the kids are getting.
NOT just the indulgences from guilt ridden, exausted career driven parents
who distract their children with purchased things spoiling them with the
equivalent of spiritual / moral junk food just to get some relief from the
offspring's obnoxiousness .
And do spare me from the moralizing of "Sunday Christians"; for that matter,
anyone who wears Their Best for Church and then takes off their ethics with
Nana's pearls when THAT little obligation is over for the week -- wanna hurl>.
If more people practiced what was preached to them...

People of genuine faith, of what ever spiritual path are in tune with the
needs of others -- for those needs are their own. Every faith worth its
incense has something like that in its dogma.
I was raised to make sure anything I used or touched was left in a nicer
condition than when I found it; the understanding being that the next person
to use it would do the same thing.
Most people have no concept that other people ARE people...
and why should they? They grew up expecting to be entertained, rather than
engaged, responsible, and contributing members of society.
However --
I have seen a marked difference in the new generation being raised by
younger parents who survived their own childhoods in the 80's boom and
started their families in the 90's "give-back." Things are getting better.
I support and reward good behavior when I see it. I reward it by saying,
Thank you for (doing whatever was done) I noticed that, and I am taking the
time to tell you so you know it does matter to people." I say it with
genuine gratitude and direct eye contact to the child.
of course, I also had fairytales read to me that featured powerful
supernatural entities disguised as beggars and "old women of no consequence"
You never know who is watching, eh? hehehe.

Our Voices

It is always important to realize
that being understood through
the printed word is not how
most folks primarily communicate
IRL.
Writing well enough to be
understood by people who
will never hear your voice
or see your body language
is a challenge for most:
it encourages introspection:
when you
are truly motivated to
be heard as more
than a voice in the chorus,
you find yourself being more
of who you really are.
Sometimes
it will bring a person
into the full bloom
of being wholly in her skin...
and then again some people
merely take up space and wonder
what's going on and why
it always happens to them.
The point is --
you get out of this
what you put into it --
we are all
both teacher and
student to one another.
Always.
~
VG.

a pudding cup in your honor...

2004-11-21T03:37:00.000-05:00

What a sharp stab of memory to see U2 close SNL with "I Will Follow".

It was M's 41st birthday yesterday.

Coincidentally U2 played SNL last night; the two entities having always been linked in my mind; it's a funny synchronicity. There was Bono in a leather jacket and trend setting shades, with that voice capable of resetting the cornerstones of churches, and all I could think of was M as a nakedly beautiful 20 year old young man with blue eyes and shoulder length hair the color of wet beach sand, wicked sense of humor and a higher vibrating energy than most hummingbirds jonesing for nectar. A culture maven into extreme punk acts in the late 70's early 80's (he loved the obscure and profane things best) U2 was what I listened to in his car and he tolerated them as a trade off for my company; I gave good mind, he loved my laugh.

We were a strange pair. Adversarial friendship, and friendly sex. We were opposites in every possible way, united in only two things: We made each other laugh; we had fun in bed. I thought of him as a kid; 3 years younger than I was; he was my first puppy: may I add, the only one of my puppies I ever slept with.

That was what being with M was like -- a warm pile-up of puppy after playing at sex: "horizontal refreshment" he called it.

Out of the privacy of the bedroom it was constant edgy teasing arguments: ridiculously histrionic, playful but to the point of pain inducing: taking him to bed was a relief from his near endless brattiness -- that unfocused energy found direction and oh my stars and garters, the vacillating boy-creature-puppy split: shed like a chrysalis when his clothes hit the floor.

The fundamental differences were I loved music, silence, and thinking; M loved talking, noise, and action. Those were the differences, but then it turned out we weren't so different: call me old fashioned but getting replaced in your playmate's affections by another guy you found attractive does make you wonder about your own appeal -- not to mention tastes in men. But... for a while: the pieces fit together pretty good.

Happy Birthday M. I hope you had fun; I wish you love...

And I wonder what sort of man you became.

Notes to Happyland...

2004-11-21T01:47:00.000-05:00

I've gotten some nice feed back from listers -- even notes from people I've

never heard from before! Here's another part of the bloodless coup:

permission sought and given to include the excerpts....

Dear ev,

I am so enjoying your Happyland - you really are very gifted. I'm not sure

what is going on with the list but here is my 2 cents worth. I think of the

EJ list as being a family of sorts. You could say Eric gave birth to this

family since it was the love of his music that started it. But as with all

life forces, after creation it has its own essence and direction and no

matter how many times you say - limit the NEJC - it will go where it will go

Now the caretakers have the job of balancing this with the down to earth

considerations of money and time and whatever and that is ok. But I don't

like the idea that peoples feelings need to be hurt to balance all of this.

take care,

Dear K --

first, and I do mean this wholeheartedly -- I am at fault. I love the list;

if you dig in the archives you will uncover flights of PROFOUND abuses on my

part of those good people's time and patience and NEJContent. In fact, I

will probably be bringing a lot of that introspection, review and revelation

to Happyland because in the year and a half I was <hehe> hyperactive on the

list I made a lot of discoveries and a tremendous amount of support and

friendship was shown to me, over and over. But -- BUT! there are also people

-- brace yourself -- who access the list to find out about the professional

goings on of Eric Johnson's career. Huh. Well, yeah... me too... <blush> I

kinda got carried away....

I was hurt. Yet it is -- I think -- being told to step up to the adults

table, myself.

All that time (and the writing) could have been better put to constructive

creative work of my own: honestly, I am a net-naif. I need to be shown

things, and I need my hand held, and oh yeah -- I need a cookie and my

blankie, too! Good grief -- how DID I get to be middle aged and still be

such a child?...

I truly love Park and Darrin -- whom, please understand; never EVER said a

word to me about toning it down or taking it elsewhere -- it was in a note

off-off list exchanged between Darrin and V, with V having asked Darrin

directly "What is the reason these days for people un-subbing from the list"

where Darrin stepped up and stated the obvious.

here's the jist of that note: I'm sharing it because I have general

permission from Darrin to share whatever he writes, but also because you

genuinely seem taken aback and sympathetic to my situation. I appreciate

that -- but you only have my side -- and that is from the initial point of

injury, fresh and pumping.

Darrin wrote:

<<Too much off topic banter, too frequently. Number one reason. For instance

an acoustic playing friend of mine that just joined last week is already

thinking about leaving because he's tired of too much stuff that isn't EJ

related or guitar related. It fills his inbox completely. We talked about it

today when we were jammin'.

I do get mentions that you and ev are posting much too much/off topic too

frequently. They state that they feel you guys are more in love with the

idea of an audience, than actually being a part of the community. I have to

say that it looks like it could be true. If it was someone else posting

heavily, they'd be saying it about them too. I've ratcheted back from where

I used to be because of awareness about that aspect. I've come across that

specific mention around five to six times in the last 10 days alone. It's

not a personal thing towards you or her, it's the length and frequency of

topic and off topic posts. Take an honest look at your volume in both length

and frequency (er...sounds like an ad for Viagra doesn't it?). You'd be very

surprised as I continually am. Remember that list subscribers don't always

have the free time that you do to read what you've written. Half the time, I

delete your stuff. No time to read it. ev doesn't seem to have time

constraints and apparently by her statement below may be unaware that some

others do.

The list isn't about willfully and knowingly starting or seeing how much

discussion one can generate. It's about participating in a discussion of a

group about music or getting a question answered. There is no distinct need

for a discussion to be started or carried on just for the sake of it... >>

.........................................................................

This really is the reason the list exists. I just stumbled onto a place from

my storm tossed and boring life (!) with waaaaay too much time and a small

talent for writing that seemed to snag the attention of 10% of a very

eclectic niche to begin with.

But that does leave the 90% majority feeling a range of moderately annoyed

to extremely pissed off -- and Park and Darrin, (bless them) never brought

it to me -- they still haven't. They may have shifted the bad news to V to

share with me -- but, I think...maybe, possibly...

I scare 'em a little!? LOL.

Having said that, I am still a member of the list. I will still post -- and

I will do so only after reciting the list rules as a mantra / dharma. I am

taking the majority of my "stuff" and plopping it (here) at Happyland.

and K -- you have no idea how wonderful it is to hear you are enjoying your

visits.

I barely know what I'm doing -- I feel like I am shining a toy flashlight

into the vast blackness of the Universe...with my eyes tightly shut against

the possibility of Bug-Eyed-Monster encounters!

It really is a bright place, though. I've peeked...

feel feel to post a comment -- non-Blogger members can post "Anonymously" --

all you have to do is sign it -- I'll know it's you. =)

speaking of which -- may I use your note in the blog, anon? Perfectly ok if

not.

I only hope to not put out yet another whiny one sided bitch-fest blog, and

this gives me an opening to do that.

I keep thinking of the pan-dimensional advice of Grace Slick: "Say anything

-- just don't be boring."

love and light,

ev.

P.S. As for V -- he is a genuine, bonafide genius who does multi tasking as a form of NOT losing his mind: he's been on the list for years doing his thing. This was a hurtful thing for him too -- but he's a Big Lion, he'll be ok.

Word Addict.

2004-11-20T02:24:00.000-05:00

I'm a chronic user. There, I've said it.
oh, gods... yes I have said it. That's the problem. The only known cure for using too many words, for sucking all the air out of the room is to shut the hell up and uh... writing about it is ironic, at best.
Indulgent in the most self centered of ways, to be perfectly truthful.
I owe that list a lot. It hurts to think I probably ran off a number of Eric's fans with my ...
I don't even know what to call it. Drunken word orgies seems much more enjoyable than what it must have been to the people who hated it.
it's oddly familiar to feel unwanted in the one place I wish I'd fit in.
Stork amongst the Swans...

Then again, it's true -- I'd rather be hated for who I am than loved for whom I'm not.
ummm call the grammar police. lol.

I can laugh.
I'm taking
my psyche's
temperature;
shits and gig
gles..? yep. I
'll be fine.
~
ev.

give me a few minutes to staunch the blood flow, you get words..

2004-11-20T01:11:00.000-05:00

I feel like sending this to Park -- but he gets too much mail as it is:

Thanks for the coffee. I'll sit here
quietly and pull myself back into
my head -- if you'll let me stay.

Well that was quite a binge --
sorry. Toothless as it is, tired
as you are... but I am so sorry.

You can't reason with a drunk --
though many do try: an inebriated
fool remains resiliently, sloshed --

Drunk is drunk -- whether on wine,
beauty, song; or with the words
that form them... it doesn't matter.

Truth: there's no nice way to tell
someone who's having too good
of a time -- to shut the hell up.

Whatever level of individual need
each person seeks to satiate,
music is a momentary cessation

from pain at the least...
a powerful medication, for a handful.
ej's music is a healing thing.

I am deeply grateful that he creates it,
and that I had the good luck to find it.
I will always look for more of it

whether recorded or a live performance.
In the vaguely remembered words of Ron Wood
"I've Got My Own Album to Do".

I'm going to lay off the list with
non-essential (off-topic) posts
and bury them over here.
~
ev.

list poems

2004-11-19T04:06:00.000-05:00

all of these poems were list inspired. Some are obvious: some are annotated.

Mr Siegel

Mr Siegel, who officially
Taught Music Appreciation;
Directed the Choirs and Bands
for 6 different Schools,
Played about 30 instruments,
Had perfect pitch,
Relished all jokes
(good and awful)
and is probably
The root of my
"short guy fixation"
said,
"If you want to be
Remembered
As a good person
All you have to do
When you meet people
Is invite them to
Talk about themselves."
This bit of advice
Was handed out while
He was trying to
Get me to talk about myself.
(I was, in my youth...
Shy. Ferally shy. )
Later as I stumbled
Over pieces of hard shell;
I'd think of the goodness of
One significant blip:
Taking the time to
Crack up an 8 year old.
~
ev.

for Park (and Trish)

you don't mess with people's pain.
This includes:
Religion,
Politics,
Family Matters,
Diet and Exercise;
and most assuredly,
the issue of Pain Itself --
which is something as personal
and intimate as sex
but entirely suffered alone.
~
ev.

on the occasion of a concert being given in a church sanctuary

sanctuary

cupping my hands I am
holding infinite space
and music flows
down Kerouacscapes
my thoughts carry me
to a sacred place
where the waters are holy
and the audience waits
ALL anticipassion
for this celebrant
Our Master Troubador
so elegant
the fortunate huddle
their souls knee's bent
for the benediction..
(Ooo, no pressure, dear Gent'!)
Now, in my mind's I
it is more than a mass
this union played through
on strings spun of brass
hear soul's call to spirit
welcomed home here at last
in the physical demensnes
of the Rose Under Glass.

Cupping my hands I
am holding infinite space
and music flows down....
~
ev.

Ah Via Musicom (take 57)

What is it
rummaging
through my
space and time
that triggers
memories making
me want tell you
things
when you are not here?
As if we
walked through
deaf children's dreams:
everything shimmering
all sound hushed to
colors
shapes
and
movements
distant but coming fast
and gone with no trace
of being:
a dream more awake
than I am now.
~
ev.

House Rules

for Anne

The poems that speak of death and dying
advise the reader that in time biding
between beginnings and one's own end
you must strive to LIVE; for that defends
the purpose for being alive at all.
Though we stumble and sometimes fall
and curse our lives for being less;
than childhood daydreams had suggest;
still every moment you take in breath
you roll the bones disdaining Death;
the Dealer who works for The House.
At any moment, whether sick or hale
the Reaper may call and you shall fail
Though Thomas and Donne both admonish
mere mortal man will stand, astonished.
Regrets, Sorrow, Lives diminished
But when Death comes, ALL is finished.
My friends I beg of you this is Our Time
and while life pulses in this flesh of mine
I want to LIVE and savor the taste
to do less is a terrible waste.
Rage and burn and scream and cry
and laugh, and love. I don't want to die
Today. No, nor Tomorrow too;
I 've got stuff I wanna do!
~
ev.

.
To all the Parents
who have contributed
to the ej-l thread of
*Career Choices*:

The millions of
unhappy and
unsupported,
confused and
directionless
people currently
wondering what
they were actually
put on the earth for --
having tuned-in my
collating subconscious
dream theater last night
asked me to tell you:
"<gasp...>
<sob..>
<smile.>
Thank You."
~

ev.

.
I had a dream heaven is like the Varsity hot dog Stand....

The Varsity

Whaddya Have? Whaddya Have?
I stepped up to the counter
to order my life and the
menu over whelmed me.
The Counter Staff got impatient
<a gadzillion served daily!>
Whaddya Have?
Whaddya Have?
whad dya have wha ddyah ave
wh ad dy ah av e wha ddy aha ve
whaddyahavewhaddyahave
so I ordered a happy meal...

and they didn't pack the toy.
~
ev.

Very true....

but if you hadn't
written what you did,
we wouldn't have
written what we did,
and you wouldn't
have responded
with what you did,
and someone
who will never
post to the list but
who follows everything
that goes on would
never have understood
what they do now.
~

ev.

Anne Pogue passed the first week in September.

A moment's pondering

David wrote:

I think some of us may have touched on this subject in the past, but, say

twenty years ago, this little group of people really practically could not

have existed - to have come to, I guess, meet you all initially through the

abstract curiosity of joining a list to see what people could share over a

simple (and I suppose initially rather one dimensional) common interest,

and to find that one can stumble upon a little pocket universe full of

fascinating, insightful, sensitive and intelligent people who, yes, even

though I most likely will never meet any of you in the flesh, I have come

to know and care about, and regard as friends -has been a true unexpected

gift.

God bless and protect you all.

for Anne

without the physical
images of who we are
we can be seen
for what we are
Spirits of Light
coming together
bonding through fires
uniting to focus
burning the cancers
that bind us:
freeing us
to the perfection
of simplicity.
I am as you
all exist in me
--a circle in ether --
wherever you live.
Breathe free: and
Know.

your
ev.

Thank you, David.
Bright Blessings Anne.
Loving thoughts, always.
~

guitars and guitarists...

2004-11-19T03:48:00.000-05:00

List Guys

I look forward
to your music
nearly as much
as I anticipate
you-know-who's

and for <you may
be surprised to learn>
the same reasons:
It makes me happy;
it makes me think;

it lifts me up just
to be in the same
world with someone
who creates such a
wonderful gift for it.

Even though it is
more likely I will
bump into eric
<he tours wider!>
and fall flat trying

to tell him...<oy!>
and he may be
"Our Mutual Hero"
is it any less heroic
to labor and be loved
on a smaller scale?

I want nothing more
than to hear what
you've made to be
listened to. Perhaps...
he might find that
sentiment enviable?
~

ev.

The EJ Strat

Park confirmed the rumors
of the imminent release;
Robin said he played 'em;
and that "EJ seems quite pleased".
Jesse's in the market, tho'
he might just buy 'American'
depending on the price range
not being "antiquarian" --
davetheguitarplayer chimes in
with an estimate "he likey"..
(ANOTHER Strat? can't wait to hear
how he "sells it" to the wifey.)
Y'know anticipation's running high
when vintage guys will buy new
-- seems everybody wants one --
which means Val is good for two.
My husband is now looking at me
as if I've come unhinged,
wondering what hormonal shift
could be behind this whim;
he asked what I want for Christmas
-- he knows I hate surprises:
(but I'll be more than speechless
if he does go out and buy it.)
I've never mentioned wanting
to pick up the guitar before;
but now -- I can't deny it --
it's an itch I can't ignore...
But it HAS to be this model,
no other will I own;
I'll wait patiently on those pick ups
so it's guaranteed *that tone*...
Ohhh I'll water it and feed it,
and walk it every day;
even redecorate the house around it --
*cause I sure as heck can't play*!
~
ev.

ev wrote:
(The Gibson custom shop site now ....yikes.Talk about your upscale
pornography! <pant pant> )

Chris answered:
Around the local geetar shop we refer to all them glossy picture books
('The Beauty of the Burst', 'The Ultimate Guitar Book', 'The Strat
Chronicles', 'The (Nielson/Howe/Entwistle/etc) Collection', et al) as
'stroke books'.

strummm
(a/k/a Jeannie Stratalicious and her sisters)

No boudoir sets,
whisps of lace;
feathered boas,
stiletto heels --
PURE beauty,
gleaming, glossy,
practically throbbing
off the page to be played...
and every one of them
a virgin and genius with
the promise of a sweet voice
as she gives up her secrets
to your intimate attentions...
but, ohhhhhh the darlings
who have earned the term
'vintage', those select Ladies
of Legend; every sweet
spot Known, caressed by
a true love's hand, worn finishes
from sleeves and sweat
the rough handling
marks of honor.

Is it the soul of
the musician poured
through that wakes the wood?
Or does she call the player to her?...
~
ev.
.
.

another reply

I love answering questions
that don't apply to me.

They're so much more
enlightening than
answering

the same old questions
that everybody always asks.

(oh, the silent enthralling
ironies of being ignored.)
Val asks:

So. How old are you?
How long have you been

this person you are now?
The one with the guitar
grafted to your soul?...

I'm 6, no matter what
mirror I consult.

<If only everyone could remember that...>

I don't grow up
I grow sideways
and the world is round!

and being 6, therefore
clever as clever <forever>

I can dance along the edge
of impunity outrageously
not just play, but BE

oh yes my learning curves
are hard, aren't they?

but listen -- can't you hear..?
life is always, always singing
" How much do you love me now?"

to the player, and the played.
~
ev.
.
.
and another

David, Sydney's Sultan of Schwing wrote:
I don't know if other players on the list find this, but I can play my
guitars a damn sight better than any other guitar I pick up - no matter how
good / slick / fast / lovely it is, particularly the old strat - she just
beckons me to play her, and things come out that just don't appear on other
instruments.
Is this a phenomenon that all players face, or is it just me?

O Best Beloved,
nobody worthy of
the term, 'lover'
would think just
any ol' object of
affection would do.

Generic Harems
are so Hollywood:
puerile fantasies
for boys who've yet
to get their hands on
a real Heart of Gold.
~
ev.

probably my best list poem

2004-11-19T01:27:00.000-05:00

I'd never written something so dense with imagery before. The more I read it over, it seems like an album of mismatched snapshots -- but because they are all describing Hendrix in someway, it hangs together. I was inspired by a discussion thread on a music e-list I belong to (for another artist who marks Jimi Hendrix a prime influence). After reading about 40 posts, all dealing with technique and performances and recordings (a lot of guitar players in the discussion mix) I wanted to put my 2 cents in through MY craft, and whipped this together with very little fussing. Normally I diddle and tweak and never get around to showing anyone what I write -- but this one had purpose and timeliness to the discussion so I did send it -- and absolutely killed the discussion D-E-A-D, lol. Talk about your fart in church. *sigh* The only critical comment I got from anyone on the list was that it could use a better title....
writing this was important to me -- I finally WANTED people to read my work.

have you ever been

Have you ever been..?
was his favorite question
so like a Bodhi / Sacred Clown
to take your psyche's temperature

and then blow your mind
wide open.
Like a sonic Van Gogh:
sounds so heavy, livid, ripe:

after all this time to touch
a canvas is to pull back
wet fingers: as song eyes
follow you in the room.

Dreams and Visions tripping
over themselves, fiercely eager
for the outlet of those hands;
drawing other hands that

took. dispensed. applauded;
and couldn't hold onto him.
All of his heroes and victims
spinning through the weave

incandescent in imagination,
decanted to the ear as
whispers, prayers; jewels:
dropping into rainbow folds.

and he could "just" play.
without a doubt or safety net,
while Mitch and Noel
equally "just" kept time;

despite the noise of
jaws hitting the floor.
Jimi's talents? Boundless;
and like a universal solvent

dissolved the container:
too potent. and solid. and --
"Have you ever been..?"
was his favorite question.

ev.

Un-listed apology

2004-11-19T01:24:00.000-05:00

Whatever level of individual need each person seeks to satiate, music is a momentary cessation from pain at the least...
a powerful medication, for a handful.
ej's music is a healing thing. I am deeply grateful that he creates it, and that I had the good luck to find it.
I will always look for more of it, whether recorded or a live performance.
In the vaguely remembered words of Ron Wood
"I've Got My Own Album to Do".
I'm going to lay off the list with non-essential (off-topic) posts, and bury them over here.

I'll email Paula and ask her to update my member listing with the blog address.
Maybe without my posts, they wont need to go to a forum format!?

settling in

2004-11-18T01:52:00.000-05:00

I've been trying out various templates for the blog -- loading up some poetry, playing with fonts.
it's actually really easy to post from email -- that will probably be my regular mode for posting.
It feels strange to find myself here -- ignored by the world and so incredibly small and insignificant.
me and archy, bébé.

I'll work on it some more tomorrow.
ev.

prequel: 3 poems

2004-11-17T23:37:00.000-05:00

My New Puppy

the Universe has a peculiar sense of balance
it seems every few years She sends me
a new 19 year old boy; just when the last one

is finally legal and trained properly
~ or as properly as I can train him ~
there he is. The new 19 year old:

slouching in on himself, shaggy hair
hanging in clear baby eyes, hungry
for words, and experience, and acceptance...

from someone other than his Mom.
But...
I am getting older, and these 19 year old boys

are so very very very
19. Still.
what felt okay at 20

and a little off at 30
is starting to make me twitch at 44.
*siiiigh*

I suppose there are worse job titles
than "Cosmic Puppy Walker"
for a perpetual Man's Best Friend.

ev.

about your poems ...

A beast roars hate to
the world and a butterfly's
wings lift from his breath.
~

You sigh (but won't cry)
and wonder why Life's passed you by.
You are a mote in another god's eye
tearing me up...

Standing in the poet's corner
shouting your pain into the world,
a grotesque variant of little Jack Horner;
dripping gore from the heart on your pen.

Misunderstood, but all toward the good:
these aches and hates in concentrate
are curaré time will dissipate; tho' I know:
the poison gives a warming glow...

Survive your bitter birth to reason;
read other poets; pass through this season --
Crane, Bukowski, Sexton, Plath;
check out the one's who've done the math --
of discontent, disillusion and of fury:
they've lived where you're headed in such a hurry!

Yes, better to write and to be read
than take another exit from your head;
but then: I have been where you are now:
and no one could have fixed me, anyhow.
~

ev.

If Icarus Had a Mom
or
Hens Don't Nag They Brood

can I tell you anything?
you stand there
with your self made wings
determination on your face
eyes towards a distant place
the glue has set, the die is cast
you will run and jump; that is that.
oh youth, why are you always wasted
on the young; so easily devastated?
I watch as you go, dear goony bird
my fingers crossed, my hopes absurd
that you shall not die from stupidity:
When you master flight: come visit me.
~

ev.

poem -- Pearlie

2004-11-17T23:08:00.000-05:00

Pearlie

It's the anniversary again
Lindberg landing in France
My god, 77 years ago
generations removed from
the here and now.
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote,
"In the late spring of 1927,
something bright and alien
flashed across the sky.
A young Minnesotan who
seemed to have nothing to do
with his generation
did a heroic thing,
and for a moment
people set down their glasses
in country clubs and speakeasies
and thought of their old
best dreams."
There is a song I love
written by an artist
a lot of people love
and he uses Lindberg
to illustrate that
most people are fine
living their lives as oysters,
while some become pearls
and I always stop
and think in a
Fitzgeraldean way;
and play some songs
that conjure
the Spirit of St. Louis;
and I realize I am so lucky
if declassé to be a Pearlie
wearing the pearls in my words
luminescent in thought, if not deeds.
~
ev.

4 shorts

2004-11-17T22:51:00.000-05:00

Salvo

It is November and all the poems
I meant to have written before
the forced heat came up out of the ducts
are gone with the Indian Summer
I never got around to letting
love my bones; I have spent
the weeks rusticating in a virtual
virtuous bed, laying on sweet memories:
quilts to bundle in for when
the snows blanket my thoughts.
~
ev.

The Way It Really Is.

how genius
of you;
fool enough
to ask:
how stupid
of me;
fool enough
to answer.

ev.

Picasso Mornings

The way you hold your face
as the kitchen table props an elbow
puts me in mind of modern art.
Were we that good last night?

I'm content to share
my Picasso mornings with you.
Who else would I allow
to see me with my nipples undone?

ev.

drafting...*

*as in bicycle racing

A friend tells me he thinks
my work will be read one day
after I'm dead and gone.

Because it comes easy
I don't work as hard...
which is a waste of talents.

Marlon Brando died when he
realized it was easier for him
than for everybody else.

ev.

3 poems

2004-11-17T21:48:00.000-05:00

grey tigers, dark lions

I have been sitting here
thinking of distant love
feeling the changes of time:
a steady march pulse

slowed to a slumber tango.

All the unwritten words
like fruit so ripe it needs
to be eaten as it hangs
heavy, luscious, weeping..

and I bruise so easily, now.

The passions of beasts
who know nothing of time
until inertia claims them ~
oh, how I envy them.

~
ev.

Everyone has a photographic memory.

Some don't have film.

The curse
of remembering
everything
that has ever happened
is that you run
the risk of falling
in love
with somebody who doesn't
and that can lead to
years of contented
ignorant bliss until
he opens his
mouth
and you realize nothing
you have shared with him
has actually made enough
of an impression to leave
so much as a damp footprint
across his memory and you,
silly thing,
have been in love with
someone that not only
forgot the film, but
without that mental stamp
on his life passport
has no proof
he
was
ever
really
there.
~

ev.

hiding...

When time moving forward seems to leave me behind
I return to the comforting hum of my books;
where people are revealed at the speed
of the reader's comprehension.

The indelible printed word!

Readers are a cowardly lot,
to prefer the black and white characters
inhabiting our frame of mind
to those who willy nilly gamble through
the hours of our days; with no more purpose
than to love us in their own fashion.
~
ev.

Hi...

2004-11-17T17:40:00.000-05:00

I'm ev. lower case: that's a conscious affectation to see if people are sensitive to my wishes and / or paying attention. Also -- my ego is a small greenish thing: whether that's mold or new growth.. new growth of mold, most likely: ah well.

The affectation: I used to think the lower case thing was strictly an homage to e.e. cummings -- but come to find out it is more of a homage to Don Marquis' Archy and Mehitabel: Archy being the Bard reincarnated as a cockroach who typed some wonderful "light verses" by painstakingly hurling himself at the keys of Don's typewriter -- and being unable to hit the shift key and a letter at the same time, all his poems are lower case with "quotes, exclamation points and question marks" spelled out. It's wonderful stuff -- and what a deliciously self-effacing twist to have his literary beard a cockroach.
Whimsical. Ironic. Clever to the point of genius, but "Genius" being a tag to snort at...
My kind of guy.
e.e. on the other hand, was sure he was a genius.
I bet he was a joy to live with.

I think of myself as a poet: which probably means I suck dust bunnies at it. No, that implies a useful attribute -- I'd be much much cleaner! *sigh*
I don't have any long term goals, I was disappointed by the election, my sex life is non-existent, I'm middle aged and happiness seems to be something I snag in increments vicariously through the doings of my friends --
and most of the people I would name as "friends" are through the Internet!?
But its an improvement over most of the rest of my life.

Life is pretty good right at the moment. I'm upright and writing.
what else matters?

I am always at home

there's nothing else

I don't feel trapped

THIS IS MY PLACE

but I wish

I was somewhere else

instead. Mostly -- I am

alone; your basic island

unaffected uninvolved

uninterminably there.

I count days without dates.

Sometimes

I am more than alone:

I become a human

mirror within a mirror

reflecting myself back

to a carnival hall in

silence zero-to-three-sixty

in a millisecond

confrontation with

mortal dread being

just a skip

in the

groove of the universe

type

of quiet

panic

anxiety

that

paralyzes

my thinking while

my body

s-s-s-stutters.

sort of paralysis palsy: but

then I just snap my fingers.

~Ta Da!~

...

Still Attached.

ev.